


Most Ardently

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Chronic Illness, Class Differences, Dancing, Happy Ending, Horseback Riding, Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, Melodrama, Minor Allura/Lance (Voltron), Miscommunication, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, they dont know they're love letters but. you'll see.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-09-23 08:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.Mr. Takashi Shirogane, however, wants nothing of the sort.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was working on this fic looong before season 8......and then season 8 happened....and my salt piled up and i knew i had to finish this, in which shiro is gay and being gay is not okay bc PROPRIETY but also keith exists, so rip, dude. basically. also this is not historically accurate in terms of time periods and for once i dont care, the regency in this AU lasted until 1860 so that i can make cowboy keith a thing, queen victoria who? dont worry about it. 
> 
> based on the rating of this fic u may have a sneaking suspicion that, shockingly, repressing your feelings to kingdom come does not actually solve anything nor make u any less gay. who knew
> 
> This may jump to 4 or 5 chapters but no more than that! i will control myself!!! this time i swear it ok. enjoy :)

Ever since Lady Allura arrived at Netherfield Park, Mr. Takashi Shirogane has not known peace.

It isn’t that he doesn’t adore Allura with every fiber of his being – he most certainly does. She is a remarkable woman, well-trained in the fine art of sending men packing with a single look, with a smart sense of style straight from Paris, impeccable manners, a kind heart, and an excellent head on her shoulders. However, it is precisely  _ because _ Lady Allura is so remarkable and wonderful that Shiro has not known peace in the last month. She attracts endless attention, especially in a provincial town like Meryton, where evidently people have nothing better to do but gawk and gossip. 

Allura did advise Shiro to expect the worst, but he doubts he ever could have prepared himself for the veritable hoard of young bachelors flocking to Netherfield and vying for the beautiful (and very wealthy) Lady Allura’s attention. It feels like they come every night, though in reality the balls are only weekly – though to Shiro, they would be too frequent if they occurred once a year. It takes every ounce of propriety and self-restraint he has to remain civil while countless young men throw themselves at Allura shamelessly, showering her with empty flattery, boastful anecdotes, and flowers, good Lord,  _ there are so many bloody flowers.  _ If he has to smell one more rose, he might have a conniption. 

If only Allura’s father were here...the good earl, rest his soul, would have sent them all packing in an instant. Unfortunately, his untimely passing brought them to Netherfield in the first place. Allura must be engaged posthaste, or the rest of the family will turn their eyes upon her heirless estate; in particular, a certain Mr. Lotor, a second cousin who has made no secret of his interest in Allura. 

Shiro has made no secret of his dislike of Lotor, and though Allura is loathe to offend or insult, she is not at all keen to marry within the family. Shiro has always considered the practice distasteful – there is a reason King George is mad, after all. 

Likelier than not, most of Allura’s relatives expected Shiro to swoop in upon Alfor’s death. No one truly believes that he and Allura think of each other as siblings, given that Alfor took Shiro in upon his father’s death when he was quite young (against the advice of everyone), and raised him in his household as a ward, if not a son. 

But that is the truth of things. He loves Allura dearly, and she him, but they both know that any marriage between them would be a last resort. He prays it will never come to that. She deserves better.

In any case, he has no title. Hardly anyone knows that Alfor left Shiro a considerable sum, as well as an entire estate – to them, he is simply Allura’s shadow, her quiet companion who drinks too much champagne and remains on the fringes of the party at all costs.

That is why it is so wholly unexpected when a stranger meets his eye across the room.

Shiro nearly drops his champagne glass. The stranger is, absurdly, as tall, dark, and handsome as one could ever hope for. His black hair is too long to be fashionable, but just long enough to be rebellious rather than slovenly. It gleams under the lamplight like wrought iron, as do the man’s eyes, which linger on him a moment too long. The man’s thick brows lower, a small and equivocal movement that could imply confusion or disapproval; there is no telling.

What Shiro does know, cannot  _ not _ know, is that the stranger is the most singularly attractive creature he has ever seen. And that is unacceptable. Shiro declined to go to London specifically to avoid... _ this. _ Yet, there he stands; utterly frozen, helplessly staring, clutching his champagne glass in a death grip. 

The stranger is the first to look away, mouth set in a thin white line, turning sharply on his heel, disappearing into the teeming crowd without a backwards glance. 

Shiro feels suddenly cold, exposed and vulnerable, and sucks in a quick breath. Who was he? Another suitor? 

The thought makes him quite sick. He needs some air.

Picking his way gingerly through the crowd and towards the open garden doors, he narrowly avoids walking straight into a smartly-dressed young man in powder blue. Before he can apologize and hurry past, however, the young man stops and exclaims, “Oh! Wait, sir, a moment, please. Are you Lady Allura’s guardian, sir?”

Shiro blinks down at him rapidly. “Guardian? I – well, no – I beg your pardon,  _ who _ are you?”

The young man flushes; his brown skin and hair contrast nicely with the blue suit. Allura would appreciate the pairing, Shiro thinks. “Dreadfully sorry, sir. Mr. Lance Serrano, of Longbourn.”

Shiro’s eyebrows lift. “Longbourn House? In Hertfordshire?” A gentleman, then, but not one so wealthy that it’s gone to his head. Hm.

“Yes, sir,” Lance says, and coughs awkwardly. “My, er, my family is here, also. My sister Veronica adores dancing, you see, and so...ahem.”

He’s very nervous. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Serrano.” Shiro inclines his head slightly. “Mr. Shirogane, of Rosings Park.”

Lance’s eyes widen. “So you  _ are  _ Lady Allura’s guardian!”

“No,” Shiro reproaches, “merely her dear friend. The late earl took me in as his ward.”

“I...see.” Lance eyes him, up and down, and his expression falls a little. 

“I am not courting Lady Allura,” Shiro adds, amused by the young man’s thinly veiled dismay. “However, I suspect you are, Mr. Serrano. As are most of the other young, and not so young, men in this room.”

Lance grins, then coughs again, hiding his grin in his gloved palm. “Well,” he says, “it isn’t every day a woman like Lady Allura comes to town, sir.”

“No, I expect not,” Shiro says. “These balls are terribly popular.”

Lance pauses. “You must know her ladyship well, sir.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Must I?”

Lance sighs, shoulders slumping. “I apologize, sir. I have no wish to intrude upon you or her ladyship. It’s just that, well, I have been unable to so much as ask Lady Allura for a dance since she arrived here in Netherfield.”

“And why not? There are dances aplenty.”

“Yes, but the same men keep asking her,” Lance explains, and Shiro bristles at once. “You see, sir? It is improper, and I have no desire to assume Lady Allura’s preference of dancing partners, but she does not look at all pleased with the situation, currently. Look.”

Shiro looks. Sure enough, across the hall, Allura is taking the hand of a tall, blond gentleman, and her expression is one of carefully-schooled misery. “Who is that?” Shiro demands in a harsh whisper.

“Mr. Wickham,” Lance hisses, his jaw visibly clenched. “This is at least the third time tonight…”

“Very well,” Shiro mutters. “I’ll handle this. You get one chance, Mr. Serrano. That is all I can promise.”

And then he marches across the dance hall, towards Allura and the persistent Mr. Wickham. Allura sees him, and smiles in obvious relief as Shiro approaches them, eyeing Wickham coolly and smiling at Allura. “Lady Allura,” he says. “Would you be a dear and let me have this dance? I believe Mr. Wickham here has been monopolizing your company tonight.”

Wickham opens his mouth in shocked protest at the utter breach of decorum, but Allura simply releases his hand, takes Shiro’s offered palm instead, and murmurs, “Why, Mr. Shirogane, I thought you’d never ask.”

He whirls her away from the rejected gentleman as the strings start up again, sending lilting swirls of music through the night air. Allura falls gratefully into his arms, a bit closer than is strictly allowed, and sighs, “Oh, Takashi, I wish we didn’t have to be here. I detest all the eyes upon me, and all the whispers, and all the men who only wish to fill their pockets with my poor father’s inheritance. Perhaps we should go back to Rosings Park, and find another way forward; Coran can help, and that might be easier to bear…”

“I know none of this is ideal,” Shiro says near her ear, “but you must have patience, Allura. Coran is busy putting your father’s affairs in order, besides. Just wait and see. Perhaps the greedy ones are frightening away the better ones.”

She pulls back a little, lips pursing. “What ever do you mean?”

“I just met a young man, a Mr. Lance Serrano, of Longbourn,” Shiro admits. “He practically begged to share a dance with you. I said I’d give him one chance, but of course, only if you agree. I’ll send him away at your word.”

“Longbourn,” Allura repeats. “Hmm. Which one is he?”

They spin, drift apart, join the other couples in a long line of dancers, and then meet again in the middle seamlessly. “In the corner, just there, in blue.”

Allura’s lips part, and Shiro knows he was right. “That one,” she muses, and smiles, just so. “Oh, alright. One dance couldn’t hurt.”

Shiro smiles back. “You like him.”

“Well,” she huffs, tossing back her silvery curls, “he certainly is young. And well-dressed. And, oh, fine; he is quite handsome.”

“Quite,” Shiro chuckles, shaking his head. “Poor lad is smitten, I think.”

“How charming,” she says. “As long as he isn’t smitten with my money and title, he can be as smitten as he likes.”

“Charming,” Shiro echoes, and she kicks his shin lightly on their next turn.

When the dance is ended, Shiro leads her to Lance, who is waiting with a visible bead of sweat on his brow. Shiro gives him a warning look, and says, “Lady Allura, this is Mr. Lance Serrano of Longbourn. I believe he would like a dance?”

Allura looks to Lance expectantly. He’s shaking like a leaf, but then clears his throat, straightens, and bows like a true gentleman. “It would be my honor to have this dance with you, Lady Allura,” he declares.

Allura shoots Shiro a small, surprised smile, and nods. “You may have it, Mr. Serrano,” she says, and offers her hand graciously.

He dances well. Shiro watches from beside a marble statue of Aphrodite, or perhaps Demeter, and decides they make quite a striking couple, Mr. Serrano in his blue evening coat and Lady Allura all in white and gold. The rest of the ball agrees, if the stares and whispers they are attracting are any indication. Mr. Wickham seethes with his friends. Shiro makes a note to bar them from the guest list.

It’s then that the stranger reappears, slinking along the wall with his head held low, almost wary, and his collar popped up in a most uncommon way. The stranger pauses to talk to a tall, broad man with dark skin and a yellow brocade vest. They are clearly well-acquainted, standing close together and whispering, judging by the shape of their lips. Halfway into the dance, they are joined by a younger woman in a pale green gown, and to Shiro’s growing bewilderment, the stranger grins at her and tugs playfully on one of her hair ribbons. She elbows him discreetly. A sibling, perhaps? Yet, while he recognizes the man in yellow from previous balls, and now that he thinks on it, Mr. Serrano has been in attendance with him...these two are new. 

The dance ends, and Shiro realizes he’s been staring for far too long. Embarrassed, he tears his gaze away, and is surprised to find Allura has not yet abandoned Lance to the mercy of the other ladies – she’s laughing, face aglow with cheer in a way it hasn’t been in far too long. It isn’t until the next dance begins that she bids him farewell, and even then, their gloved hands linger, and Shiro begins to smile.

Lance finds him afterwards, beaming, not unlike Allura. “Thank you, Mr. Shirogane,” Lance says, inclining his head. “I won’t forget your kindness, and I do think Lady Allura appreciated not having to dance with Mr. Wickham again. Please, if there is anything I can do for you, name it.”

Shiro hesitates. This is a new place, one far from the rumors which plague Rosings Park. He must remind himself of that – they know nothing of him or his past, here. Mr. Serrano did not even know who he was.

“Actually, I  _ would _ like to ask you a question,” Shiro says, and nods to the stranger across the room. “Do you know that man?”

Lance blinks. “Who, Mr. Garrett?”

“The one in black,” Shiro says, filing the name away in his head.

Lance glances back at him, nonplussed. “Oh, you mean Keith – I, er, I mean Mr. Hawkins.”

_ Keith. _ “Does he live in town?” Shiro asks.

Lance chuckles. “Town! Oh, no. No, Mr. Hawkins is an  _ American.” _

“An American,” Shiro repeats, and hopes it doesn’t sound too dreamy. 

Lance, thankfully, is oblivious. “Yes, well, he’s visiting with the Holts – Miss Katie Holt, beside Mr. Garrett, is Dr. Samuel Holt’s daughter, and they’re old family friends, staying at Longbourn on business. From the West originally, Arizona Territory – or New Mexico, I forget; I haven’t a clue how they do things there. In any case, somewhere with no shortage of dust and horses and open space. Mr. Hawkins won’t stop telling us how strange and close together everything is here.”

“Close together?” Shiro repeats, brow furrowing. “But we’re in the countryside!”

“Oh, yes,” Lance grumbles, “but the West is bigger than all of England, the way Mr. Hawkins talks about it.”

“How queer,” Shiro says. “You know, I’ve never met an American.”

Lance, sensing a chance to prove himself, puffs out his chest and declares, “Then you shall, tonight, at once! I’ll introduce you, please, come with me.”

“If you insist,” Shiro says, and follows him towards the strange trio. “Have you been acquainted with this Mr. Hawkins very long, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not long,” Lance says over his shoulder. “His family’s ranch is close to Dr. Holt’s homestead, from what I gather, he treats their cattle if need be. Mostly people, of course – but, you know, a doctor’s a doctor.”

“I know,” Shiro mutters, eager to leave the subject of physicians. “So his family owns a...ranch?”

“Sounds quite fanciful, doesn’t it?” Lance agrees. “There’s more – his father is a  _ cowboy. _ Suppose he might be considered a cowboy, himself. You can ask him, sir.”

And then he’s standing in front of the beautiful stranger who is an American named Mr. Keith Hawkins and Shiro is temporarily struck dumb. If he was striking from afar, he is blinding up close.

Thankfully, Lance is very good at running his mouth. “Hello, gentlemen. Lady.” Miss Holt rolls her eyes. Shiro’s jaw does not drop at her rudeness, but it’s a near thing.

“Hello, Lance. Who’s this?” Keith says, and Shiro instantly wants to perish. 

Nobody’s voice has the right to be that lovely. And by lovely, Shiro means it is deep and a little rough and accented in exactly the cliche American way he expected it to be, but rather than sounding simple or uncultured, when Keith speaks, Shiro can absolutely picture him atop a horse, hat askew, galloping through the dangerous desert with the sun at his back and the world at his fingertips –

Oh, dear. For a terrifying moment, Shiro sincerely fears he might be drooling; thankfully his mouth is so dry he can barely speak. He clears his throat like he wasn’t just fantasizing about Keith’s mysterious adventures in the Wild, Wild West. “Mr. Shirogane,” he says, and inclines his head. “Mr. Serrano here was just telling me about his American friend – admittedly, my curiosity is piqued.”

Keith tilts his head. A lock of coal-black hair falls over his brow and it is  _ dashing, _ and Shiro is quite furious. He’s going to need more champagne.  

Then Keith sticks out a gloved hand and says casually, “I’m Keith. Keith Hawkins. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shirogane. You the one who got Lance here a dance with Lady Allura?”

Lance blushes.  _ “Keith! _ That is not –”

“Yes,” Shiro says, shaking his hand as briefly as possible. He has never had any strong feelings regarding gloves before, but suddenly, he loathes them. Keith’s grip is firm and confident, and Shiro wonders, a bit dizzily, if he has calluses. “That was me.”

Lance looks as if he’s just been betrayed by a trusted ally. Shiro has no sympathy for him; they met less than an hour ago. 

Keith grins, and Shiro is devastated. 

“Well, well,” Keith drawls, actually  _ drawls, _ “color me impressed. Did Lance have to bribe you or something?”

Mr. Garrett coughs and Shiro’s eyebrows go up. 

“There was no bribery,” Lance hisses. “You dolt, he’s Lady Allura’s —”

“The late earl took me in as a child; I was the son of his late steward and became the earl’s ward. Lady Allura and I grew up together at Rosings Park,” Shiro says. Keith blanches, and glances at Miss Holt, who looks equally surprised, though not quite as dismayed as Keith. 

Shiro gets the sense he’s said something wrong. But surely that is impossible. He always says all the right things. It’s how he’s managed to survive thus far.

“He isn’t courting her,” Lance declares. Shiro purses his lips. 

Keith looks like he’s eaten something foul. “Haven’t you got a title then, Mr. Shirogane?”

Shiro blinks. “Oh, not as such. Though there has been some talk of an eventual knighthood,” he jokes.

Keith does not look amused. Mr. Garrett, bless him, forces a chuckle. 

“You look perturbed, Mr. Hawkins, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Shiro adds. 

“Ah,” Keith says, brow low. “Pardon my shoddy manners. I’m afraid this nobility business is a mystery to me. Bit too feudal for my liking.”

Shiro opens his mouth, then closes it. “I beg your pardon... _ feudal?” _

“Well, yes, feudal and  _ futile, _ to be honest,” Keith says, a trace of hot impatience flashing across his fine features. “Playing at lords and ladies, throwing balls every week, with endless pairing off and inheritance of titles and courtly intrigue and so on and so forth – seems a mighty big waste of time.”

“Oh,” Shiro says. 

“Keith!” Miss Holt exclaims, and gives him a stern look. “You mustn’t be so rude. It isn’t as if we aren’t without our strange customs, either.”

Keith purses his lips, lifting his eyes to the glittering chandelier and grand staircase. “Guess so,” he says, sounding quite unconvinced. “Just seems...silly.”

Shiro knows when he isn’t wanted. “It is not for everyone, certainly,” he says, and bows stiffly. “I do hope you enjoy your time here in England, Mr. Hawkins, Miss Holt. Mr. Serrano, Mr. Garrett – enjoy the remainder of the evening.”

He leaves before anyone can say anything more, but does not miss the way Keith’s dark eyes widen, his brow creasing in the brief moment before Shiro turns away. 

Allura is dancing with another gentleman, and she is no longer smiling. Retreating to his usual corner, Shiro is terribly aware of the late hour, and of the several young women who have imbibed one glass of champagne too many, and have begun to eye him with interest and chatter amongst themselves like sparrows. 

Shiro knows he ought to dance with at least two or three, to keep up appearances. But he has kept up appearances at every ball thus far, and frankly, he tires of it. Keith’s criticism certainly does not help matters.

One of the young ladies works up the courage to approach, and Shiro slips out of the room with a quickness crafted from necessity, winding through the murmuring masses undetected. The night air is a welcome slap of cold to the face, biting at his cheeks as he walks down the pebbled path, past the wild rose bushes and trimmed hedges. 

Beyond the walled garden is the inviting swathe of green countryside, so open and bare that it frightens him. Rosings Park, and especially Pemberley, are surrounded with woodland. Here, there are only hills and heaths, and Shiro tips his chin up to the dark sky, and feels all at once quite alone.

The late earl had no obligation to take Shiro in as his ward, yet he had. Lady Allura had no obligation to accept him as her brother, nor to allow Shiro to accompany her upon her father’s death, yet he had. And if they had not accepted him into their fold? Shiro has no illusions about where he comes from, nor as to where he would be now, had the earl been less kind upon his steward’s unexpected passing.

And yet. This world is undeniably gaudy, one forged of too much tradition and too little progress. Allura’s desperate quest to find a husband and provide an heir is testament enough to that. But this world protects Shiro, in a way he would not be, otherwise. With money, he can become invisible, and he leans against the stone wall, watching the distant flicker of stars and imagining the quiet life he will someday have in Pemberley Hall, away from the expectations of the court and the prying eyes of those within it. It will be a lonely life, yes, but Shiro resigned himself to loneliness long ago. 

Someone coughs a few feet behind him, and Shiro starts violently, coming face to face with none other than Mr. Keith Hawkins. The American looks as startled as he, and coughs again, his color high in the pale moonlight. “Pardon me,” he says. “Didn’t intend to spook you.”

Shiro eyes him, folding his hands behind his back to conceal their tremor. “No harm done,” he says lightly. “Though I wasn’t expecting to see you again, tonight.”

Keith swallows, and gestures to the wall. “May I?”

Shiro inclines his head, and Keith leans against the wall beside him, gaze drifting also to the stars, lips twisting into a minute frown. 

“I felt I owed you an apology,” Keith tells him. “I spoke out of turn, about things I don’t fully understand. And I would not have you think me a boorish brute. The party is...awfully nice. I did not intend to insult it, or yourself, Mr. Shirogane. I just...do not always think before I speak.”

Shiro fervently wishes he had simply been rude and proud and let that be the end of it. But no. Shiro, it seems, must suffer through him offering a sincere apology. 

Shiro takes a second to gather his thoughts, and wits, for Keith is staring at him with open earnestness, so open Shiro is almost embarrassed for him. Keith is quite unconcerned with guarding his expression the way so many others do, Shiro among them. 

“Truth be told,” Shiro finally manages, “you did not offer any opinion that was grounded entirely in falsehood.”

Keith’s eyebrows go up. Lord, he is wonderfully expressive. “No?”

Shiro shakes his head. “It  _ is  _ a bit silly, all of this.” He gestures vaguely. “But it is the way things are. It is the way things have always been.”

“So it must be right, then?” Keith’s lips twist wryly. “A not uncommon opinion, though I cannot abide by it.”

Shiro blinks. His forwardness takes more than a little getting used to. “Whyever not? Change is all well and good, but there is value in tradition and custom. The value may be obscured by the gaudy dances and dress, but it still remains.”

Keith looks back out at the stars. “Value for some, perhaps,” he says. “For others, less so.”

“Now I cannot tell whether you are speaking of England or America, Mr. Hawkins,” Shiro murmurs, and it is Keith’s turn to look at him askance.

“Well, well,” Keith chuckles, “perhaps you do have some rebellion in you, yet.” Shiro resolutely does not shiver at this. Keith’s smile widens, and he leans fully against the wall. “Have you been to town much, Mr. Shirogane?”

“I’m afraid not. Lady Allura and I are unfamiliar with Meryton, and would not wish to intrude –”

“Then I shall invite you, so as to dispel any fears of intrusion,” Keith says. “Come to tea and lunch at the Serrano residence, Longbourn. Tomorrow afternoon, let’s say half past noon. Are you game?”

Shiro shakes his head in amazement. “And are the Serranos aware of these plans of yours, Mr. Hawkins?”

Keith shrugs. “Depends on whether or not you intend to accept these plans of mine, Mr. Shirogane.”

Shiro inclines his head, heartbeat refusing to match his carefully calm expression. “I accept your rather unconventional invitation. I cannot promise to bring Lady Allura with me, however.”

“The invitation was for you,” Keith says easily. “Besides, I think poor Lance might have a conniption if Lady Allura appeared on his doorstep without warning.”

Shiro laughs at that. “Wouldn’t we all? She is certainly an impressive presence.”

Keith clears his throat and looks back at the hills, a line between his brows. “Yes,” he says. “Impressive, indeed.”

*

Longbourn is a relatively humble estate, and Shiro cannot help but smile at the clucking chickens which dash past his boots and into the muddy courtyard, where the sounds of other animals, pigs and goats and a cow, can be heard. A few servants dart to and fro, but only a few. He’s well aware some might look down upon simpler living, but he finds a sort of comfort in it. It’s quaint.

There are no marble floors, nor servants waiting upon his every beck and call, and the house itself is only two stories, with wide rectangular windows and walls the color of slightly stained ochre. Gravel crunches as he steps off the drive and onto the flagstone threshold, peering up at the impressive door. It is dark wood, perhaps walnut, and clearly quite old. Shiro is enamoured by Longbourn’s age – there is worth in things that last.

The door flies open, and Shiro takes a startled step back. A flustered woman stands in the doorway, her dark hair streaked through with gray, her dress a faded blue. “Mr. Shirogane!” she exclaims. “A pleasure to have you here – oh, I am Mrs. Serrano, how rude of me, not to introduce myself first!”

“There is no need to apologize,” Shiro says kindly, admittedly unnerved by her anxious manner. “I assume Mr. Hawkins informed you of my arrival?”

“Oh! Mr. Hawkins, yes! How lucky we are that he has you as a friend.”

Shiro blinks. “I, er, am more of an acquaintance, really, we only just met –”

“Be gentle with him, Mrs. Serrano.” Keith walks into the foyer, hair tousled with a more casual elegance than at the ball, which is somehow twice as devastating. “Mr. Shirogane. It is good of you to come.”

“Of course, it is good of you to have me,” Shiro says. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Serrano.”

She flushes and waves a hand. “Oh, well, I daresay it is not half as fine as Netherfield Park! Perhaps once, but not these days. But I digress! You are here to drink tea and share lunch, not to listen to an old woman reminisce!”

“It is alright, truly,” Shiro assures with no small degree of awkwardness, and Mr. Hawkins falls into step beside him as Mrs. Serrano marches them into the parlor. 

Shiro is greeted with the terrifying sight of four young ladies all dressed in what he suspects are  their finest dresses, sitting in a semicircle on the sofas, all pretending to drink tea. When he walks into the room, they all rise at once, timed as clockwork, and Mrs. Serrano gestures to them as if auctioning off racehorses. “My daughters!” she declares.

“Ah,” Shiro says. “I see.”

“Oh, dear,” Keith mutters. “Mrs. Serrano, perhaps I should have been more clear as to the nature of Mr. Shirogane’s visit –”

Mrs. Serrano ignores him and says, “This is Maria, Lydia, Kitty...and my eldest, Veronica.”

Veronica is in dark blue and looks very much like Lance, though with darker and of course longer hair, a more serious tilt to her full lips, and an expression of pained gratitude. “Mr. Shirogane,” Veronica says, and curtseys. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Shiro looks from Keith to Mrs. Serrano to Miss Veronica. He has had no time to prepare for this, nor has he ever quite been in this position, before. “I, er, yes, you. As well. It is a pleasure to meet you as well.”

Oh, Lord, is he expected to kiss her glove? Shiro stays where he is, frozen to the spot, and Mrs. Serrano looks disappointed. Keith clears his throat. It is at that moment that Miss Katie Holt bursts into the parlor, a book under each arm, freezing mid step and blinking at them all owlishly. 

“Oh,” she says. “Why is everyone standing?”

Mrs. Serrano huffs, and all the girls sit. Veronica looks mildly relieved. Miss Holt’s entrance is followed by a man with a gray beard and spectacles who must be Miss Holt’s father. 

“Company? How grand,” he murmurs. “Don’t mind us, Mrs. Serrano, Katie simply wished to find a volume on tuberculosis I had misplaced earlier this week…”

“There will be no talk of tuberculosis in this parlor, Mr. Holt!” Mrs. Serrano scolds, and beams at Shiro again. “Mr. Shirogane, this is Dr. Samuel Holt and his daughter Miss Katie Holt, come all the way from America!”

“A pleasure, Mr. Shirogane,” Dr. Holt says with a polite albeit distracted smile. “Say, do you know much about respiratory diseases?”

Shiro grits his teeth in the vague approximation of a smile. “Unfortunately, no, doctor. Best of luck in finding your misplaced book.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Dr. Holt mumbles, brushing past to continue his search in the next room. 

Katie stops beside Keith, and whispers, “What  _ have _ you done? Inviting Mr. Shirogane into the lion’s den? Tsk, tsk.”

Keith’s eyes widen, and he looks to Shiro. “That is  _ not _ what I –”

“No? We shall see about that!” Katie shakes her head and practically skips after her father.

“Sit, sit, please,” Mrs. Serrano insists, gesturing to the largest armchair in the room. Shiro sits, and thankfully Keith takes the vacant chair to the left, shooting him an apologetic glance. “So, Mr. Shirogane! How are you finding Netherfield?”

“It is quite – that is to say, I find it perfectly acceptable, certainly a change from Derbyshire –”

“Oh! Derbyshire! My daughters and I so rarely go to the north of England, you must tell us all about it!”

Shiro does not know how, but somehow, he manages to survive the next excruciating half an hour of tea and scones in one piece. To his credit, Keith does try his best to extricate them from the conversation, but Mrs. Serrano is terribly keen to keep them, or at least Shiro, in as close proximity to her daughters as possible.

The one consolation is that poor Veronica seems about as inclined towards Shiro as he to her, which is to say, not at all. She, like him, is well-versed in manners and small talk, and they go miserably on and on about how pleasant the weather is and how lovely the balls are and what nice tea this is until, miraculously, one of Keith’s excuses is firm enough for Mrs. Serrano to release them.

As soon as they are in the open air, walking together down the gravel drive with no thought in mind but escape, Keith says, “I suppose I should have warned you of Mrs. Serrano’s marital ambitions for her daughters. But, after all, Miss Veronica is quite agreeable, is she not?”

Shiro frowns at the dewy grass and tries to think very hard about the way Miss Veronica’s lips move, which he supposes he should find attractive. He does not think about Mr. Hawkins’ lips, not at all. “Why, yes,” he says. “Agreeable, certainly…”

Keith raises an eyebrow, pausing at the end of the drive. “But…?”

Shiro coughs into his glove. “But not handsome enough to tempt me, I’m afraid.”

Keith’s lips, which are unfortunately much more tempting than Miss Veronica’s, settle into a thin line of displeasure. “Is that so? Your standards must be very high, then, for Miss Veronica is one of the prettiest young ladies in town.”

“My intent was not to offend nor to undermine Miss Veronica’s reputation,” Shiro says hastily. He is sure his brow is beaded with sweat. “I simply have no plans for marriage, to be frank with you.”

At this, Keith turns. “Do you not? And why, if I may ask?”

“The idea has never held much interest for me,” Shiro admits. “Indeed, assisting Lady Allura in her estate is interesting enough. I have no need of heirs, you see.”

“Hm.” Keith’s lips part, no longer displeased. “But what if you fall in love?”

Shiro blinks. “Love? I can’t say I’ve given it much thought.”

“Then I say you ought to,” Keith retorts, turning smartly on his heel. “There is a reason so many men write poems on the subject, you know. In any case, do you ride, Mr. Shirogane? The weather is sublime, we ought to make the most of it.”

Shiro blinks. “My horse is in the stable, and I enjoy riding very much.” He smiles slightly. “But I worry I will be no match for the son of a cowboy.”

Keith colors a deep and unexpected crimson, and coughs into his glove, averting his eyes. Shy is a good look on him. “Lance,” he says gruffly, shaking his head. “Lance told you, didn’t he?”

“Should he not have?” Shiro teases. 

Keith huffs. “Lance is mighty fond of exaggeration, is all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told you my father and I robbed stagecoaches and ran brothels on the side.”

Shiro almost falls on his face. “I — b-broth — ahem. I suppose they  _ do _ call it the  _ Wild  _ West for a reason. I wasn’t certain how much of the gossip to believe.” He gives Keith a sidelong glance. “How much  _ should _ I believe?”

“Only as much as I tell you, sir,” Keith says easily, waving a hand and steering them towards the stables. “Rest assured I’ll tell the truth.” He pauses at the stable door and grins over his shoulder. “There are plenty of brothels,” he adds under his breath, and swings the wooden door wide.

Shiro is still recovering by the time the groom hands him the bridle to his horse. Keith looks a bit put out, and says, more than a little testily, “Do you know how to tack up your own horse, sir?”

The groom walks away hastily. Shiro’s horse, Velveteen, noses at his jacket, looking for sugar cubes. “Er,” Shiro says, “no?”

Keith purses his lips. “You ought to learn,” he says, and leads his horse out of the stable. She is a well-built little chestnut, and flicks Velveteen’s black rump with her red tail as she passes. Velveteen’s head shoots up, and he lets out a startled snort.

“The thought never occurred to me, honestly,” Shiro says, leading Velveteen out after her. “If I may ask, does your horse have a name?”

Keith nods. “She’s only my horse as long as I’m in England; I could never take my Red across the Atlantic. She’s of a nervous disposition as it is. This one here’s called Rosie.” He pats her withers approvingly, and she nibbles at his hair. Velveteen keeps looking for sugar cubes. Keith raises an eyebrow. “He seems to like you. Got a name for him?”

“Velveteen,” Shiro says a bit sheepishly, and pets the gelding’s white nose. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him.”

Keith smiles. “Nothin’ wrong with that,” he says. “Horses could do with more spoiling, less spurs and crops.” He heaves himself up into the saddle, and looks down at it with an expression of deep perturbation, as if he doesn’t look like he belongs atop a horse like the sun belongs in the sky. “And better saddles,” Keith adds.

Shiro follows his lead, and once in the saddle asks, “These are perfectly fine saddles, what seems to be the matter?”

Keith shakes his head. “Perfectly fine! Psh. These are damned tiny excuses for saddles, pardon my language.”

“Pardoned,” Shiro says faintly. “I take it you have different sorts of saddles, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Keith says, as they ride off down the drive and away from the house full of frightening young women, “much bigger than these. Cattle herding demands you carry more atop your horse than yourself and your frock coat, you see.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about cattle herding,” Shiro admits, feeling more than a little foolish. He thought he was an educated man. 

“It’s an art,” Keith says over his shoulder. “Harder than it looks, to be sure. But there is nothing in the world like the thrill of a cattle drive, moving a hundred head of cows and steers all at once across the plains and mountains…”

“A hundred cattle?” Shiro says faintly. “And how many herders are there?”

Keith grins. “Five or six. And a few helpful dogs.”

Shiro’s jaw drops. “However do you manage such a thing with so few?”

“Patience and focus,” Keith says, sitting back in the saddle and relaxing in a way Shiro had never quite seen anyone do atop a horse, before. “My father taught me everything I know – and my mother, too.”

Shiro frowns. “You don’t mean to suggest your mother herds cattle, too? Surely not…”

“You don’t mean to suggest she would be incapable of doing so?” Keith lifts his chin, eyes flashing in impertinent challenge. 

Shiro clears his throat. “I – would not presume to suggest such a thing, though herding cattle does seem to go against all feminine sensibilities. She must be a, er, remarkable woman.”

“Feminine sensibilities.” Keith snorts. “As if you would be any better at roping cattle by sheer virtue of your manhood.” His gaze flicks up and down Shiro in a way that makes him feel quite small. “Doubtful.”

“Are you saying I would make a poor cowboy?” Shiro exclaims as the shade of the small woods closes in over them. 

“Oh, you certainly have the size and strength for one,” Keith says, and heat curls low and unwelcome in Shiro’s belly. Keith waves a hand dismissively. “But that isn’t everything. Have you ever even touched a cow?”

Shiro scratches the back of his neck. “Er...come to think of it, no.”

“There you have it,” Keith says with obvious satisfaction. “It is a learned skill, nothing to do with one’s sex.”

“I defer to you on the matter, but I cannot help but wonder – does her dress not get in the way?”

“Dress!” Keith exclaims. “My mother wears dresses to church and to town as she pleases; at work, she wears trousers like the rest of us.”

_ “Trousers,” _ Shiro says faintly. “The times are changing, indeed.”

“Are you opposed to it?”

“No, no,” Shiro says after a thoughtful beat, because in truth, he aches for change of a most impossible sort, and so it would be of the utmost hypocrisy to not be sympathetic towards women who prefer trousers and horseback riding. “I am glad for it, strange though it may seem to me. Lady Allura is not exactly a woman whom I can nor ever would dream to picture in trousers.”

“No?” 

“She is certainly capable, but also fond of dresses and pretty, ladylike things. I firmly believe the two can coexist, and do, in Lady Allura, as she is the most accomplished and genuinely kindhearted woman I have ever known.”

Keith smiles at that. “I defer to you on the matter, Mr. Shirogane, though from what precious little I know of her so far, I am in agreement.”

Shiro hums, and they settle into easy serenity, the horses picking their unhurried way through the swaying grass and the men in their saddles admiring the beauty of the world around them. 

Velveteen lifts his nose curiously to the jays flitting in the branches, large and lovely birds which make ungodly squawking sounds, and Keith watches them with wide eyes and parted lips. It is an expression of guileless enchantment, and Shiro finds it difficult to look away.

“The birds are different in America,” Keith says. “I don’t recognize their songs, here.”

“Do you miss America?” Shiro asks. The breeze carries the scent of sweet clover and damp earth, the rich aroma of the heather moors and peat bogs carried with it. 

“Every day.” Keith stops Rosie, and nods to where Shiro can see a small stream winding its way through the ash and alders. “But England does have its...charms. Fancy a swim?”

Shiro blinks, uncomprehending, as Keith dismounts, loops Rosie’s reins around a low tree branch, and then proceeds to unbutton his jacket and cuffs. Shiro gapes. “What  _ are _ you doing?!”

Keith’s jacket slides off his shoulders and he tosses it without concern over the horse’s saddle. “Do you English swim fully clothed?” He nods to the sun, high overhead. “I did say the weather was sublime and we ought to make the most of it. This is making the most of it. The stream is quite safe, I assure you, Mr. Shirogane.”

Shiro is glued to his saddle. “I – do you seriously intend to just _strip,_ _here,_ I daresay, Mr. Hawkins, we are hardly even _acquainted –”_

Keith pauses, halfway through unbuttoning his vest, revealing his thin white shirt through which Shiro swears he can see the vague shapes of dark nipples and the suggestion of muscle tone; a lithe, beautiful,  _ male _ body that Shiro  _ must stop looking at  _ if he is to have any bloody hope of controlling his wicked, unseemly lusts. 

“I did not intend to cause you discomfort, sir,” Keith says, vest hanging open, cravat undone, and brows drawn together in confusion, because he does not understand, of course he does not, he  _ cannot, _ or he would flee this place at once in fear and revulsion, and likely never speak to Shiro again, much less invite him out to leisurely rides and dips in the stream in the middle of the woods. 

If Keith knew the truth of his nature, Shiro would forever be a threat to him; there would be no chance at friendship. Shiro has repressed his awful desires thus far; this time will be no different. They can be friends, and nothing more, for the thought of Keith hating him is a painful one indeed. 

It is for this reason that Shiro forces himself to breathe, to calm, to school his expression and voice into one of apology. “Forgive me, Mr. Hawkins, I am simply...unused to gentlemen so readily disrobing. It seems you are rather more accustomed to it?”

Unexpectedly, Keith laughs, flushing a bright and rosy pink. “Oh. Ahem.” He coughs, glancing up at Shiro through his lashes with only the slightest chagrin. “I apologize, Mr. Shirogane, but as you can see, I am not a gentleman.”

“Evidently,” Shiro croaks, his voice dry as a desert. “Well, don’t let me stop you, Mr. Hawkins. I will join you shortly.”

“Happy to hear it,” Keith says, and wanders down to the stream, shedding clothes all the while. His back flexes in a smooth curve, shoulders rippling under the translucent fabric as he walks. 

“I am being tested,” Shiro whispers, bowing his head and remembering to breathe. “Yes, that must be it. I will not give into the temptation, never again. I will not be a danger to Mr. Hawkins, never.” His nails dig into his palms. “Please give me strength.”

With that, he swings himself out of the saddle, ties Velveteen close to Rosie, but not too close, and follows Keith down to the water. 

As it turns out, no amount of prayer nor fortitude could have possibly prevented Shiro from losing several years off his life immediately upon seeing Keith half-nude in the stream, his shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows, shirt hanging halfway open, and trousers discarded on the bank, leaving him in his underdrawers. 

Shiro perhaps wheezes, or maybe whines; regardless it is a noise better suited to a dog than a man.

Keith does not notice, engrossed as he is in wading deeper into the stream and stretching luxuriously in the clear water. Shiro looks away resolutely and fumbles with his own jacket, his mouth full of anxious cotton as he removes it and folds it atop a nearby rock; his vest follows after much hesitation. 

It is indecent enough for Keith to see his shirt. After that, it is frighteningly easy to unbutton his breeches and cast them aside with his stockings and boots. He wades into the stream before he can lose his nerve, or come to his senses.

Keith is smiling at him, apparently intent on crumbling Shiro’s resolve to dust. “I told you the water would be pleasant. Have you never swum in a stream like this?”

“Never,” Shiro admits, toes curling in the silt and pebbles in the stream bed. “It is most tolerable. Though it is also, I feel I must again inform you, a complete breach of propriety.”

“Is that so?” Keith sighs, drifting out onto his back with such unguarded ease that Shiro almost envies him. His lean chest rises and falls evenly, the water washing over it as the current carries him gently along. “It may shock you to hear this, but even in the West I believe most consider me quite uncouth.” Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Yes, they think me some wild thing, and the truth of it is, I can do nothing to change their prejudice about my character.”

“Whyever not?” Shiro asks, with indignation on Keith’s behalf. “Surely they are not so stuck in their ways as to defame you so, and offer you no chance for recourse!”

“Surely, they are,” Keith says, and wades back over, until there is hardly a few meters between them. Keith’s long black hair hangs down into his face in dripping strands. “For their fault with me lies in my blood, and that is hardly something I can change, nor help. My mother is Indian, of the Navajo tribe, and it is said I take after her most. And though she taught me well to be polite to those deserving of it, she has little patience for false niceties and strict etiquette, nor do I.”

“Mr. Hawkins, I want to assure you I do not share their unfounded judgment –”

“Keith,” Keith says, softly. “Please. And I know, I  _ know, _ in society we must use our proper names, but we need not do that here. Need we?”

Shiro had hoped for a swift and merciful death, but he suspects he has just entered into some heretofore unknown circle of Hell.

“Keith,” he repeats, furthering his own torture. “As you wish.” He bites his lip. “Then I suppose you ought to call me Shiro, if we are to be – familiar. It is a, er, nickname, though not many use it.” In fact, only Allura and Coran ever do, but Shiro does not tell Keith this.

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs, as if tasting it on his tongue, savoring each syllable. “Thank you for allowing me that informality. I confess constantly attempting to keep up such stately airs is...draining. And I don’t think I am very good at it, in any case.”

Shiro jumps to his defense. “On the contrary, I believe your genuinity matters more, Mr. – er, Keith. You are an honest man and there is nothing unfavorable about that, except when honesty slips into bluntness, and even then, there is a degree of merit to bluntness if one’s intention is kind.”

“You truly think so?” Keith asks.

“As one who also tries his best to be honest, yes, I do, Keith.”  _ Tries, and fails, _ a cruel little voice in his head whispers.

“You are,” Keith says, looking up at him with earnest eyes. “You seem a very honest man, Shiro, and I hope I am not too forward, but I believe we could be great friends.”

“This is all much too forward,” Shiro says, forcing a chuckle, “but I have no qualms about accepting your friendship, Keith, for however long you may grace England with your presence.”

Keith beams at him and claps him on the shoulder, and Shiro cannot help but flinch as if burnt. He conceals it with a weak smile. “I will be here ‘til the year’s end,” Keith declares, “at least.”

Well, then. Shiro should have known better than to hope he might be leaving tomorrow. 

A year, he tells himself, is not so long.

Then he looks at Keith’s smiling face and knows, in the pit of his soul, that he was damned to fall from the start.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Lance Serrano of Longbourn has been calling upon Lady Allura for nearly two months now, and truly, Shiro cannot recall the last time he has seen her so aglow with happiness. 

The parlor is filled with flowers, and Shiro no longer minds them, for each bouquet is chosen with the utmost care and meaning behind it – honeysuckle for devotion, white roses for virtue, bluebells for humility, primroses for young love, amethysts for admiration, daffodils for respect, daisies for innocence, camellias for longing, ivy for fidelity, and lily-of-the-valley for sweetness and completeness.

They take tea in the parlor together, with Shiro as chaperone, and go on long walks in the gardens afterwards, which Shiro does not chaperone, but rather watches from afar in the window as they wend their way through the manicured paths and sit nearly too close together on the benches and low stone walls. 

These afternoons would be wholly pleasant if not for Mrs. Serrano’s stubborn insistence on bringing Miss Veronica along.

Somehow, Mrs. Serrano has gotten wind of the inheritance the late earl left Shiro; that can be the only explanation as to why she is so determined for Shiro to marry her eldest daughter. Shiro is not keen to reject the young lady outright, so he endures her company, and truth be told, her company is enjoyable, even if he has no intention of asking for her hand. 

Miss Veronica is intelligent, an excellent conversationalist, and, like Shiro, fond of reading. They talk at great length about  _ Frankenstein _ in particular, and Shiro is always fascinated by Miss Veronica’s insights into Shelley’s work. 

“I suppose it is quite a morbid subject for a young woman to write about,” Shiro says, “but do death and loneliness not affect us all with equal power and consequence, Miss Veronica?”

“Indeed they do, but that was not the theme I came away with after reading,” Veronica admits.

“Indeed? Then what meaning did you glean from it?”

“Well, it is about prejudices, is it not?” Miss Veronica sips her tea and purses her lips. “The monster is assumed monstrous because of his appearance; though his heart is originally good and kind. It is only when everyone treats him with cruelty and fear that he becomes cruel and fits their preconceived image of him.”

“I see,” Shiro muses, looking down at the small book with new eyes. “I believe you may be on to something, however – what hope is there for the monster, then? He was shunned by his creator, by society, never given so much as a chance to prove his own worth and humanity. He was fated to be monstrous from the beginning.”

“It is fiction, Mr. Shirogane,” Veronica says. “I would hope real life offers us more opportunities than Mrs. Shelley’s poor monster.”

“And if our society is against us?”

She gives him an odd look, and tilts her head. “Why, then we ought to find others like us,” she declares. “Societies are not homogenous, of one mind and belief, but of many. One would hope there are at least a few dissenters.”

“Unfortunately, dissent is not encouraged in court,” Shiro remarks, failing to keep the sour note out of his voice.

“Well,” Veronica says demurely, not meeting his eye, “you are not in court, Mr. Shirogane, you are in Netherfield Park.”

“Hm,” Shiro says. “Say, have you read Thoreau’s  _ Civil Disobedience _ ?”

Veronica claps her hands together, eyes bright. “Oh, have I ever!”

Thankfully, Mrs. Serrano seems satisfied by Shiro’s ploy to turn courtship into book club, and Veronica never so much as attempts to add more ardour to their meetings, bless her. 

Keith, however, acts rather queer about it all. 

“You discuss literature with her?” he demands on a morning ride across the moors. It’s too cold for any bathing, and Shiro finds both comfort and disappointment in that fact. He’s grown fond of the sight of Keith’s naked back. 

Aesthetically speaking, of course. Ah, the way the light falls through the trees and over his rippling shoulders like so many golden coins on sculpted marble –

“Why, yes,” Shiro says. “She is quite well-read, a rare trait, I find.” He pauses. “Do you read much, Mr. Hawkins?”

“Keith,” Keith grunts.

“Apologies,” Shiro murmurs. He’s still getting used to impropriety, and if he’s being honest, there is the omnipresent fear of getting  _ too _ used to it.

“And no, I have never seen the point,” Keith retorts. 

“Of reading?” Shiro exclaims, all thoughts of bare skin and golden coins banished at once. “Why – the point is to enjoy it!”

“I do not find reading enjoyable,” Keith says. “It is a bore. I read what I must – letters, grocery lists, bank notes, and such. Anything more, and the words hurt my head something awful.”

“Oh.” Shiro looks down, more affronted by this than he ought to be. “That is a pity, Keith. But perhaps you just haven’t found the right book.”

“I would not ask you to subtract any time from your precious afternoons with Miss Veronica to persuade a savage of the merits of fine literature,” Keith says, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.

“Precious afternoons?” Shiro repeats, and frowns. “Keith, if we had any choice in the matter, Miss Veronica would be at home, doing as she liked, rather than trapped with me in the parlor. But her mother will not hear of it, and I have no desire to spurn her family, especially as Mr. Lance Serrano is courting Lady Allura, as you well know.”

Keith grips the reins a bit less viciously. “Then your feelings towards marriage and Miss Veronica are unchanged?”

Shiro lifts a hand. “I was not done.” Keith ducks his head, twin spots of color appearing on his cheeks. “You are no savage, Keith, perish the thought that I would ever see you as such. It would please me greatly to read with you, if you so desired.”

Keith hesitates, his form held tight and uncertain. “Well,” he says after a beat, “if it wouldn’t be a bother...you do seem awfully fond of reading, and I must admit... _ some _ curiosity.”

Shiro beams at him. “I can certainly work with curiosity,” he says. “And, if you decide you absolutely cannot bear to read another word, I won’t keep you a moment longer than you like.”

“As if any moment spent with you would be unpleasant,” Keith says, so softly Shiro almost misses it.

“Oh,” Shiro says. “That is most generous of you, Keith. I, er, find your company quite pleasant, as well.”

Keith lifts his head to the sky. “It looks like rain,” he says. “We ought to head back.”

The sky is gray but not laden with enough clouds to merit cutting their ride short. Shiro concedes, but as they ride on to Longbourn, Shiro watches Keith’s dark profile, and wonders.

*

Shiro considers himself a kind man, but not necessarily a sensible one.

And so it is that he ends up spending more and more time with Keith, however, this is far worse than before, because rather than being with Keith in the wide expanse of the moors, he is trapped with Keith within the dark walls of Netherfield Park’s impressive library. Even when Keith was exposing himself in the stream, Shiro felt he would be able to escape, to turn away, to ride off, if need be. 

But now, reading with Keith practically pressed flush along his side, breath and hair tickling his cheek and neck, the only escape Shiro can imagine is gouging his own eyes out with the nearest letter opener, and even then, Keith would be able to touch him and Shiro would be able to feel it, and hear his voice, and  _ smell him _ – yes, Shiro has truly resorted to the level of a hound –  so really, there is no way out in sight. 

He once considered himself a patient man, as well, but thanks to Keith, patience is now but a wistful fantasy. Among other things...

They’re never going to make it through  _ Frankenstein, _ at this rate. Shiro keeps stuttering on the simplest words, and Keith keeps asking if he’s alright, and Shiro cannot very well tell him that he’s distracted by the charming brush of Keith’s thick lashes over his high cheekbones as he studies the words Shiro is reading aloud.

“Would you like some tea?” Shiro finally says as Keith’s encroachment on his personal space reaches a dangerous level. Keith’s damned hand is almost on his bloody  _ thigh, _ for the love of –

“Tea? Oh. Yes, tea would be nice.” Keith blinks and pulls away, as if only just realizing he’s been using Shiro as an armrest for the last half an hour. Oh, Lord in Heaven. Maybe he  _ has  _ just realized. He must have. Keith is utterly oblivious, and Shiro is utterly suffering. The next time he does it, Shiro will just ask him to stop, and then it will be alright. _ If  _ Keith does it again. Perhaps he won’t. Perhaps he was simply too engrossed in the story to notice.  

Shiro chalks it up to that, that is, until they’re drinking tea and Keith leans over again,  _ over Shiro’s lap,  _ and plucks the book from the cushion on the other side of him. 

Shiro freezes, and whatever Keith says, he does not hear it, because the image of Keith’s back arching and well within reach, the exposed triangle of skin at the nape of his neck between cravat and the soft dark fall of his hair, is irreparably burned into Shiro’s treacherous mind. 

“Shiro? Er – Mr. Shirogane, are you –”

“Don’t touch me,” Shiro says, standing and crossing the room in a barely-composed hurry, hands clasped tight behind his back. “I don’t know how it is in America, but in England, if one wishes to fetch a book, one  _ asks,  _ rather than clambering over whoever is in the way.”

Keith sits up straight and stiff, looking stricken. “I – apologize, Shiro. I did not think –”

“No, you did not,” Shiro snaps, and exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I think you ought to call me Mr. Shirogane from now on, Mr. Hawkins. Too much familiarity is dangerous.”

Keith’s brow lowers, not in confusion, but in something like anger. His voice is clipped and frosty when he replies,  _ “Dangerous. _ I see. I did not take you for a _ coward, _ Mr. Shirogane.”

Shiro turns with measured, controlled indignation. “Whatever game you’re playing at, Mr. Hawkins, I will not tolerate it. Do you understand me? I have cut ties before for the sake of self-preservation. I will do it again. Do not force my hand.” 

He’s bluffing. He would rather fetch the letter opener for its aforementioned purpose than force Keith out of his life. 

But Keith seems to believe him, because his fierce demeanor changes; he lowers his head, brows drawing together and lips set in a small frown. His fists at his sides loosen. “There is no game,” he says quietly. “I was mistaken and I – your friendship is important to me, Mr. Shirogane. I have no desire to cause you discomfort or have you distrust me nor my intentions. You have treated me well, with the utmost respect, and if I have been rude in return, I apologize, sincerely.”

“I accept your apology,” Shiro says distantly, walking to the window, steadying himself on the frame and gazing out over the bleak, wretched moors. It does look like rain, now. “The weather will turn foul soon. We should ride back to Longbourn House, with haste.”

“I have no need of a chaperone,” Keith says, his tone unmistakably hurt as he gathers up his coat and hat. 

Shiro turns to him. “I am not coming as a chaperone, but as a friend.”

Keith holds his gaze, and there is something awful and uncertain and raw in his lovely eyes, and maybe it is contrition, and maybe it is something more, but Shiro is tired of hoping for it, and hurt in more ways than Keith can or should ever know.

“Alright,” Keith finally says. “As long as you’ve learned to saddle your own horse.”

*

Truth be told, Shiro spent hours learning how to saddle, groom, and otherwise tend to Velveteen, though he’d never admit it, and especially not to Keith. 

Keith offers him a raised eyebrow and low, possibly mocking whistle when Shiro manages on his own, and that sets the tone for the remainder of their ride back to Longbourn. Keith is quiet, and when Shiro tries to make conversation, his responses are curt. 

“Do you like  _ Frankenstein _ any more now that we’ve reached Chapter Eight, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I like it the same as before, Mr. Shirogane.”

“Is it just my imagination, or is the rain falling harder, suddenly, Mr. Hawkins?”

“Mr. Shirogane, I thought you wanted less familiarity.”

“I did not intend to discontinue any and all conversation between us, Mr. Hawkins.”

“I am tired, Mr. Shirogane, and conversing tires me more.”

“You have always been energetic in the time we have known each other, Mr. Hawkins.”

“This is an exhaustion of the spirit, not the body,” Keith says, and Shiro does not press him further, nor could he have, for Keith urges Rosie into a canter and draws far up ahead as the clouds gather above them and the tempest breaks loose.

It all happens so fast. 

One moment, Shiro is securely in his saddle, digging his heels into Velveteen’s flanks to quicken his gait; the next, Shiro is seized by a familiar and terrible tight pain in his chest, one that rips the very air from his lungs and head in one fell swoop, and then he is  _ falling, _ slipping from the saddle altogether and hitting the cold earth with a numb thud, crumpling in the mud helplessly. His vision fogs and he claws weakly at the grass, panicked, for he cannot draw in enough breath, and everything is too light and spinning as if the ground is roiling underneath him and the sky is rushing down to meet him and –

“Shiro!” Keith falls to his knees beside him, and Shiro tries to curl away, ashamed and yes, he will admit it, frightened of what Keith will think of him now that he knows at least one of Shiro’s weaknesses of the flesh. Keith touches his face, glove mysteriously gone, palm shockingly hot against the chill air and wet mud. “Shiro, please, can you speak? Are you hurt? Ill? You’re pale as a ghost…”

Shiro coughs, violent and painful, and folds in on himself, unable to even muster up the strength to cover his own mouth. “Apologies,” he rasps, closing his eyes. “I cannot –” He cuts himself off with another bout of coughing.

“No apologies,” Keith snaps, and hauls him upright with a grunt. Shiro would be mortified by the way he slumps into Keith’s shoulder if he wasn’t rapidly losing consciousness, lungs shrinking in his chest, nausea overtaking every labored breath. “Shiro, stay with me,” Keith whispers, genuine fear bleeding through. “I forbid you to die on me. Do you understand?”

_ “Keith,” _ Shiro manages before he doubles over, and the looming clouds and dark moors and Keith’s pale, worried, beautiful face all dissolve into empty gray. 

*

Shiro thinks he is in a bed with cool linen sheets, a bare chest, and a warm compress on his head. A sea of faces drifts anxiously on the edges of his vision, ebbing and flowing further and further away. Voices murmur and exclaim in hushed concern and when Shiro moves, they lift at once in volume, and he hears the word  _ physician,  _ shortly followed by  _ fever  _ and  _ bedrest.  _

Shiro tries to protest but his mouth is dry and his tongue is heavy and then Keith’s face swims into his vision and a lump grows in his throat until he cannot breathe again, and finds himself sinking, down and down and down into an endless sea of his own making. Bitter saltwater floods his mouth as he gasps, uselessly, for air he will not even allow himself.

*

When his eyes open again, there is a physician standing over him, and the physician is Dr. Holt. 

At least, Shiro thinks he is; he cannot quite make out faces but he sees the faint gleam of spectacles and hears a voice that sounds very much like Dr. Holt, reciting treatments, teas, tinctures — Shiro has heard the list before. 

Then, another voice, louder and feminine,  _ Is it pneumonia, Father? Or a severe case of the flu? _

_ No,  _ Dr. Holt says.  _ This is a chronic condition, I’m afraid – I have seen its kind before. _

A third voice joins in. Keith’s. Shiro closes his eyes.  _ A chronic condition? Is there no cure? _

_ He was born with it, I suspect,  _ Dr. Holt says.  _ The illness is in his blood, causing some issue in circulation – it is an inescapable sort of fatigue. Too much exertion, or other forms of stress, would bring on an episode like this one. _

_ We ought to call upon Lady Allura,  _ Miss Holt says.  _ If it has been with Mr. Shirogane since childhood, perhaps she will know the root of this ailment, and how best to treat it.  _

Shiro tries to protest; he does not want Allura seeing him like this. She has enough to worry about. A warm hand stills his lifting arm, and when Shiro dares to crack his eyes open, Keith is leaning over him, brow drawn low and dark in concern. 

_ Hush, _ Keith whispers,  _ you need rest. _

_ Leave me, _ Shiro pleads in a dry, rasping voice that is hardly a voice at all. 

_ I will not, _ Keith snaps.  _ This...I am partly to blame for this. _

Shiro’s heart pounds into a bewildered panic. He tries to shake his head, but the motion sends a jolt of dizzy nausea through him, and he slumps back into the pillows in defeat, his limbs feeling fuzzy and weightless. Movement scrambles in faint blurs of color above him. Someone places water to his lips; he does not drink. Keith thinks this was  _ his _ fault. 

How is it that Shiro ruins everything he touches?

_ Keith, what do you mean? _ Miss Holt demands.

Keith hesitates. Shiro wishes the roaring blood in his ears would be merciful and drown him.  _ We had a quarrel in the library at Netherfield Park,  _ Keith says. _ I fear I may have upset him. I — maybe I  _ should _ leave.  _

“No,” Shiro gasps, and all the blurry faces turn to look. “Not your —  _ mine.” _ He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to stay above water. “My fault.”

“Don’t speak,” Keith pleads, and his voice is clearer in Shiro’s ears; Shiro can hear the way it trembles. Keith kneels beside the bed. Dr. Holt ad Miss Holt are murmuring, but none of that matters when Keith lays a hand on his shoulder. “It was not your fault, Shiro,” he whispers fiercely. “You are a dear friend and I will not lose you. Do you understand?”

Shiro gazes up at him helplessly and nods as much as he is able.  _ Dear friend. _ The words echo in his mind like rolling marbles, cold and scattered.

Keith smiles with obvious relief. “Good.” He squeezes Shiro’s shoulder and stands again. Shiro misses what he says next; slumber takes him again in a swift pull into shadow.

*

The next time he awakes, it is to sunshine and Allura.

She sits beside the window, her posture slumped in a way she would never allow the world outside this room to see, long pale hair tumbling down her back. Her arms are crossed over her front, tucked around herself, self-soothing. Shiro blinks at her, and uses what little energy he has gathered in his exhausted body to roll onto his side, facing her properly. 

“My lady,” he murmurs, and she starts to her feet, leaping from the window seat and going to his bedside at once. 

“Shiro,” she breathes, sitting on the side of the bed and grasping his hand with startling strength. “Oh, Shiro. I only received word this morning...they told me you fell from your horse, and Mr. Hawkins carried you back to Longbourn…”

Shiro swallows. “I do not remember anything after the fall, after Keith ran to me. But I expect…” He coughs, and Allura does not chastise him, but waits it out; they are both stubborn creatures who understand each other’s need to preserve what pride they have left. Shiro closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and continues. “I expect I made quite a scene.”

Allura purses her lips. “I believe that is the last thing on anyone’s minds right now, Shiro. Mr. Hawkins – or rather,  _ Keith _ –” Shiro’s face warms as he realizes his slip, “is  _ quite _ consumed with worry for you. He was reluctant to leave your side at all.”

Shiro rolls onto his back and stares at the canopy in despair. “I never should have left Pemberley Hall.”

Allura squeezes his hand. Her eyes are kind, but sad. “You mustn’t say that,” she sighs. “You would be...lonely, there.”

“I can be nothing but lonely no matter where I am, Allura,” Shiro replies. “We both know this all too well.”

Allura hesitates, and looks down. “Mr. Hawkins asked me who Adam was.”

Shiro stops breathing. 

She looks up again, a line between her brows. “You were saying his name in your sleep. I told Keith he was...like a brother, to you.” Allura rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “A brother you had a falling out with.”

Shiro’s laugh is ragged. “A brother,” he repeats. “That is a little perverse, no?”

Allura does not laugh. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispers. “And I refuse to believe such a thing is impossible for you.”

“As do I, you,” Shiro says, ignoring the latter half of her sentiment. “Does Mr. Serrano make you happy?”

Allura smiles faintly. “Well...he certainly is good at selecting flowers.”

Shiro eyes her. “Husbands ought to be better at more than just ‘selecting flowers.’”

Allura gawks at him and smacks his hand lightly. “You _ rogue. _ I will have you  _ know _ he has been  _ quite _ chaste,  _ not _ that I would tell you if we had not been.”

“Mm.” Shiro closes his eyes and sighs; it rattles in his chest. “I am glad...he brings you happiness. You deserve more of it.”

“So do you.” Allura brushes his hair away from his brow and leans down, kissing his forehead gently. “Do not forget that, Shiro.”

Shiro only sighs again. Allura does not leave.

Instead she says, “Does Mr. Hawkins bring you happiness?”

Shiro does not answer; cannot answer. He feigns sleep again, knowing Allura does not believe it for a second, and waits until she sighs, rises, and leaves him be.

*

_ “We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to commence…” _

Shiro stirs slowly on the cool bed, turning towards the sound like a morning-glory to the moon. The words fall over him as summer rain; it is easy to get lost in their white noise, a murmuring of sounds strung together, united by the familiar voice which forms them so sweetly.

_ “She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage...a tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness…” _

Keith’s reading has improved very much, and the thought fills Shiro with warm pride. He waits until Keith has finished the chapter – or perhaps until he has just tired of reading it – and whispers, “Thank you.”

Keith’s intake of breath is sharp, surprised. “You’re awake.”

Shiro opens his eyes. “Yes.” 

Keith is as lovely as always. He sits in the armchair beside the bed, his collar and hair rumpled. There is a dark smudge high on his cheek – ink, or mud, there is no telling. There are dark smudges under his eyes, too. Shiro frowns. 

“Have you slept?” he asks without meaning to.

Keith’s tired eyes widen. “I – not very well, no. But that is besides the point. You are the one who needs rest.”

“I am rested,” Shiro says, and starts to sit up, only to choke on his own breath, fatigue rolling over him with merciless weight. He slumps back down into the pillows, ashamed and unable then to look at Keith any longer. He looks dully out the window instead. It is a cloudy day; he misses the sun already. 

Keith makes a soft sound. “Lady Allura said you have always had this ailment?”

“As long as I can remember, yes.” Shiro pauses. “I am sorry you had to drag me back to Longbourn House in the rain.”

“Sorry?” Keith exclaims. “Why in the world are you  _ sorry?” _ His voice rises. “I thought – I feared you were – and after we had just –” He breaks off.

Shiro looks to him, alarmed, and tries again to sit up when he sees Keith has his head in his hands, shoulders trembling minutely. “Keith,” he rasps, and reaches out, his clumsy hand falling upon Keith’s knee. Keith jolts, peeking at him through his splayed fingers, but does not move away. “I did not treat you fairly, then. Forgive me.”

Keith wets his lips. “Then...you do not, that is to say, there is no ill will between us?”

“None,” Shiro whispers. “I would not dream of it, Keith. You are…” He shivers. “A dear friend.”

Keith’s relief is palpable. “I am glad to hear it,” he murmurs, and tilts his head. “Glad to see you are well, also.” He smiles, a bit rueful. “I know we have not known each other long, hardly a few months, but...you mean a great deal to me, Shiro. Or, er, Mr. Shirogane, if you would still rather I –”

Shiro shakes his head, resigned. “Forget the unkind words I said that day. I was – I spoke out of turn.”

“I am not sure that you did,” Keith murmurs. Before Shiro can question that, he adds, louder, “For what it is worth, you are like a brother to me, Shiro.” 

Shiro’s heart constricts with an all-too-familiar violence. 

“Oh,” he says.

Keith is still talking. Shiro barely hears him, but this time his words are not soothing, rather they prick at him like so many thorns, adding insult to injury. 

“I have never had a brother, but, if I had, I would have been honored to have one like you. And, I wanted to tell you, I have been reading more, not just  _ Frankenstein _ ...it is mostly magazines, you know, and those little picture books you folks have here, what are they called…”

“Penny dreadfuls,” Shiro mumbles, numb.

“Yes, yes, those. But they are over so quickly, and so I wondered if you might recommend…” Keith pauses and leans forward, brow furrowed. “You don’t look well, again. I’m sorry, I’m...rambling.”

“That is alright,” Shiro says. “Do not trouble yourself with it.” _ I don’t want your pity. I want you. _

“It is no trouble.” Keith’s hand covers Shiro’s – he forgot to move it, and regrets it when Keith’s calloused fingers tangle with his own. The gesture is, surely, too intimate. But Keith is all earnestness, and looking at him, Shiro cannot imagine he means anything more by it than to comfort...as one would a brother.

Shiro is growing to loathe that word.

“If there is anything I can do,” Keith says, “anything at all, simply say the word, Shiro.”

Shiro gazes up at him, at the fall of his hair and the shadow of his collarbones, the curve of his mouth which is so often twisted into a wry smile or set in a tight line, but now is soft, parted, here with only Shiro as witness. 

_ Kiss me, _ Shiro thinks.  _ Just once, I beg of you. Then I can be your damned brother, your dear friend, whatever you like, for the rest of this torturous year. _

“There is nothing,” Shiro says, “but thank you, nevertheless.”

“Of course,” Keith says, and holds up  _ Frankenstein. _ “Shall we?”

Shiro smiles weakly. “Indeed.” No sooner has he said it, he’s seized by a bout of coughing, and to his consternation, Keith leaps from the armchair and hovers over his sickbed with frantic focus. Keith’s hand lands on his bare chest and Shiro flinches so powerfully that Keith darts away, a question Shiro will not answer on his lips. “Tea,” Shiro rasps, pressing his face to the pillows and breathing hot and shallow against them. “Tea, first, I think.”

“I will fetch some at once,” Keith agrees hastily, but dallies in the doorway, as if he is afraid Shiro will vanish in the meantime. Shiro flaps a hand at him, and he goes, leaving Shiro to curse low and vicious at the ceiling, gasp for breath, and repeat. 

*

The rain settles over the countryside and does not leave, and so neither does the ache in Shiro’s body, one that, when Keith is there, becomes all the more painful. Shiro is sick in two ways, neither of which he can seem to ever overcome. 

It is a relief when Dr. Holt pronounces him well enough to be moved back to Netherfield Park, at least until Keith insists to go with him. Shiro cannot bear to push him away a second time, so he does not protest more than is expected, and Keith goes with him in the carriage, their elbows brushing and their gloved hands inches apart.

“I miss our rides together,” Keith says as the carriage clatters over the hills and through the deepening mud. “And I am certain Velveteen has missed you over these past weeks.”

Shiro leans back against the upholstery. “I am not as good with beasts as you are, Keith. No doubt he fares just fine with the grooms, as long as they feed him plenty of carrots.”

“You are too harsh on yourself,” Keith retorts. “You may not be a cowboy, but your horse truly likes you. Not many men can say that.”

“I’m just kind to him,” Shiro mutters. “That is all.”

“There is no ‘just’ about kindness,” Keith says. “Many men are cruel.”

“I know,” Shiro says, a little too fast.

Keith notices. “When you were very ill,” he starts, “you were saying a name, and Lady Allura said –”

“Some things, and people, are best not spoken of,” Shiro interrupts, his heart pounding and head feeling too light again. He takes measures to calm himself, and digs his nails into his palms. Keith waits, expression troubled, and Shiro knows he will not be content with this, so he adds, “Adam; yes, Lady Allura told me.”

“And...was he cruel?” Keith shifts closer in the carriage. “To you?”

“He was not kind,” Shiro admits. “But neither was I.”

The memories that flicker across his eyelids are sudden and unwelcome, flashes of brown skin and open mouths, moans muffled in knuckles, teeth biting so hard into skin that he can count the marks afterwards. Disgust roiling in his gut afterwards, thickening and curdling when he sees that disgust reflected back at him, the shared repulsion of knowing that something within them both is broken and can never be fixed. Or, rather, Adam could, or at least he played the part convincingly. Shiro could only ever keep breaking.

“What did he do?” Keith asks. “If...that is to say, you need not tell me, if you do not wish it –”

“No, it is quite alright,” Shiro lies. “He got married.”

Keith blinks. “Married?”

“To a woman I – advised him against,” Shiro adds, shaking his head. “She only wanted his money. I disapproved of the match.”

“You were good friends,” Keith says. “According to Lady Allura, anyway.”

“Were, yes.” Shiro longs for the carriage to stop. 

“So, what, you stopped speaking because he did not heed your advice?” Keith frowns, puzzled. “Was she really so bad?”

“No,” Shiro sighs, unwilling to lie more than he must. She is a good woman, and does not deserve his slander – or Adam. “But he wanted me to marry, as well. Insisted upon it, really.”

“And you refused.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Shiro rubs his temples. “I already told you my thoughts on marriage, did I not?”

“You did,” Keith says slowly, “but now, I am unsure if you told me the whole truth.”

Shiro tenses. “What?” The close space of the carriage is all at once menacing, a dark maw around him, and the glint in Keith’s eye is far too knowing, and Shiro’s palms sweat, and his breath shortens, and –

“Do you think,” Keith whispers, “you would be a burden?”

Shiro’s panic fades, stutters to a halt. “I –?”

“You aren’t,” Keith says, voice firm. “Shiro, you would not be.”

Shiro stares down at his boots. He does not deserve Keith. This damn world does not deserve Keith. “You are very kind,” he murmurs, “to me.”

“It is the truth, Shiro.” Keith offers him a small smile. “If you fall in love, just...remember that, alright? Remember that if someone loves you, truly loves you, they would not cast you aside or resent you for a condition you have no control over. Do not let it stop you from following your heart, from having a family, a home.”

Shiro searches his face. It is guileless. Keith does not know, then, cannot know. He relaxes infinitesimally, and smiles back. “You sound like a man who has fallen in love before,” Shiro replies.

He does not expect Keith’s flustered response; he turns back to the window, a tension to his shoulders, and coughs into his fist. “Not, er, not exactly,” he mumbles. “I have not – there is no –”

“Cowgirl?” Shiro finishes, and grins when Keith elbows him. (He only wheezes a little.)

“Terrible,” Keith grumbles. “But no, there is no –  _ that.” _

“Shame,” Shiro says lightly. “Whoever she is or will be, she is a lucky woman.”

Keith flushes. “Flatterer. Don’t think the rest of the people in town would share that opinion, though.”

“No?” Shiro asks. “Because of your parentage, your mother?”

“In part.” Keith hesitates; opens his mouth, then closes it. “But I got to marry someday, like my father. A ranch needs children to work it, and to let our land slip away ‘cause I couldn’t find a wife…” Keith sets his jaw. “I couldn’t let my Da down like that.”

Shiro exhales. “He expects you to marry, then?”

Keith rubs his eyes. “He expects a lot of things. Guess I would, too, if I were him. I just…” He sighs. “I wish I had a sibling or two, y’know?”

“He puts it all on you,” Shiro murmurs. “All the responsibility. All the...the future.”

Keith nods mutely.

“That sounds like a hard burden to bear,” Shiro adds.

“It’s easier, here,” Keith whispers, and looks up at him. “To be away from it all. I – I love my home and family, Shiro, with every fiber of my being, but – being here, the future, my duty – seems so far away. I don’t have to wake up at dawn every morning to work, but I do it anyway, and when I watch the sun rise, I wonder how it can be the same sun when it feels so different.”

He wants to see Keith at sunrise. He wants to see Keith as he wakes, stirring to life in the languid morning, his hair tousled and limbs loose. He does not think of carnal pleasures, of sins of the flesh, looking at Keith then. He thinks of falling, and savoring every second of it. 

He thinks of holding Keith, just holding him, and feeling the way his heart beats against Shiro’s. He thinks of cupping Keith’s face and looking simply because he can, telling Keith he is beautiful simply because he  _ can. _ He thinks of a world, a reality, where such a thing is possible. He wishes such a place did not seem so far out of reach. 

“How does it feel, then?” Shiro asks, clinging to Keith’s every word like the precious thoughts they are. 

“It feels free,” Keith says. “I don’t know how, seeing as how you’ve got all your rules and titles and etiquette, but…” He chuckles. “I am a stranger here. I have this feeling – that I can do whatever I wish, and at the year’s end, I will be gone anyway, and what is done will be done. Does that make any sort of sense?”

“I understand.” Shiro tilts his head, watches the way the faint sunlight creeps through the clouds and spills over Keith, haloing him in silver. “I imagine I would feel much the same, in your West.”

Keith laughs, his lips curling with delight Shiro cannot help but mirror. “I would pay good money to see that!” Keith crows, and for the remainder of the carriage ride, recounts the epic tale of the Adventures of Shiro and Keith in the Wild, Wild West, and by the time they reach Netherfield Park, Shiro has forgotten he is sick in any sense of the word.

*

Shiro gets worse before he gets better.

It is easy to pretend he is all well and good when Keith is making him laugh and spinning wild yarns, but the sobering truth sets in when he faints on the staircase up to his bedroom.

It has been nearly a month, and he is not recovering. It is unsurprising, then, that he awakes to low voices murmuring about moving him away from Netherfield Park – away from Meryton, away from Longbourn, away from Keith. Perhaps that is for the best. Some time away will do them both good. Shiro will miss him terribly, but his emotions towards the American will be better kept in check if there is distance between them. 

This is what he tells himself.

Keith has tea ready when he opens his eyes again. Shiro is too weak to hold the cup properly and they both know this, but Keith hands it to him anyway, watching like a hawk as Shiro slowly lifts it to his lips with trembling hands. 

“They are sending me away,” Shiro rasps when the tea is drunk and Keith is satisfied he will not splash boiling water all over himself. “To Rosings Park?”

Keith shakes his head. “To Pemberley Hall. Lady Allura thought you would be more inclined to it.”

“Lady Allura, as usual, was right,” Shiro chuckles. The very thought of returning to Pemberley Hall’s quiet rooms and winding garden paths is a comfort.

Keith looks down. “So you’re just going to leave?”

“It does not seem I have much other choice,” Shiro murmurs. “The weather here is not good for...well, me.”

“Maybe you should go to the West, after all,” Keith says under his breath. “It is warm there, and dry, and sunny all the time.”

“Sounds like Heaven,” Shiro agrees. “But I am not convinced the journey across the Atlantic would not be the death of me, at least in this state.”

Keith’s shoulders slump. “Oh. I just thought – it was foolish to even suggest –”

“Keith,” Shiro says, “I am sorry to leave you, and all of Meryton, but there is no helping it.”

Keith bites his lip.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Yes? I can tell you have something on the tip of your tongue, so, say it.”

“You are to leave tomorrow morning,” Keith says, “if you are amenable to that. And, er, I...would it be too uncouth to stay the night?”

Shiro blinks. “You cannot sleep in that chair,” he says, stupidly.

Keith clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. “Hah,  _ no,  _ I mean, I  _ could, _ but –”

“But you will not,” Shiro says, firmer, regaining hold of his senses. “Of course you are welcome as a guest at Netherfield Park, Keith, and I would be happy if you were to...to see me off, tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Keith says. His face is still pink. “Saves me a long carriage ride back, besides.”

Shiro snorts. “Oh, and now the true reason comes out!”

Keith splutters. “That is  _ not – !” _

Shiro snickers at him and Keith stands up in a huff, though he’s smiling. “I am in jest, of course. Go on, tell the servants to make up whichever bedroom you like for the night. I daresay you have your pick.”

_ “Aristocrats,” _ Keith scoffs, and winks at him over his shoulder as he leaves with the empty teapot.

*

It is almost strange how normal it feels to have Keith at dinner. He and Allura fall into pleasant conversation, and she is quite amused by the banter between the two men. Shiro is well aware he does not imagine the knowing glint in  _ her _ eye, but he ignores it as Keith recounts the most daring of their make-believe adventures to Allura, gesturing with his fork for emphasis. 

“A snake!” she exclaims, putting a hand to her mouth. “Surely not!”

“Surely yes!” Keith sips his wine, though she is at the edge of her seat. He is a gifted storyteller; even the servants are entranced as they come and go. “With a great rattle at the end of its tail, to warn folk away from stepping on it, or coming too near…”

“And if they do not heed its warning?” Allura whispers.

Keith snaps his hand shut like a pair of strong jaws and both of them gasp. “Few live to tell the tale.” Allura applauds, and Shiro follows suit. 

“Do you really have such creatures in the West, or was that all fabrication?” Shiro asks him after dinner, when they are retiring in the parlor. Allura is playing her favorite sonatina on the piano across the room, and pauses to hear Keith’s answer.

“All true,” Keith replies, running his fingers over the embossed spines of the books crowding the many bookshelves. “That is only the start of it. Have you ever seen a scorpion?”

Allura looks up. “Oh! I have read of those. The stinging desert insects, with tails like this.” She curls her finger into a ‘c.’

“Just like that, yes.” He shudders. “They always crawl into my boots, back home. If you ever find yourself in the West, shake your boots out first.”

“Have you been stung?” Allura gasps.

Keith nods gravely. “Too many times to count.”

Shiro frowns. “You ought to be more careful, Keith.”

He shrugs. “I have far worse scars.” Keith sits down on the settee and adds, “I am about to roll up my pant leg, so if that offends either of you, shield your eyes.”

Neither of them looks away, though Allura looks like she thinks she ought to, and Shiro  _ knows _ he ought to. He has seen Keith’s bare chest, but not his legs, for they have always been submerged, and he is unprepared for the sight as Keith reveals his calf, and then…

Allura is silent, shocked and dismayed. Shiro’s mouth goes dry.  _ “Keith.” _

“There was a lone lobo, a desert wolf,” Keith says. “Don’t know what happened to the rest of its pack, but it was starved, and desperate, so it went after one of our calves. I was, uh, thirteen? Fourteen? It was calving season, so my parents were helpin’ with a couple cows who had gone into labor right then. I didn’t have time to get help so I got my Da’s rifle and ran for the wolf. The first few shots missed – it was a big gun and I wasn’t so big – and then it grabbed my leg.”

Keith’s calf is wreathed in scar tissue, long pale pink streaks, raised and thick, struck through with clear suture marks. Shiro thinks of sharp teeth sinking in, dragging Keith along in the dirt as he struggles, blood pouring from slavering jaws, and has to stop himself as bile rises in his throat. Bile, and something else. 

A protective urge rises up in him, and it is an absurd one, for out of the two of them Keith is far more capable of defending himself against a wolf, but...nonetheless, Shiro wishes to protect him from it, from the incomparable pain he must have been in, from the fear and the desperate fight for survival. 

Keith sees their expressions and covers his leg at once, brows drawing together. “I apologize,” he says. “I forget, sometimes, how ugly it is.”

“It is not,” Shiro starts, and both Allura and Keith give him looks. He closes his mouth.

“It healed as well as it could,” Keith sighs. “It was much worse when new...Dr. Holt did not know if I would walk again. But I healed.”

“What became of that wolf?” Allura manages.

Keith frowns. “I shot it.” He seems more upset by this than by his mutilated leg. “I did not want to. Lobos may hunt our cattle but they were there first, and they are magnificent creatures.”

“But it attacked you,” Shiro says. He is still staring at Keith’s leg, though the fabric covers it. “It could have killed you…”

“But it did not,” Keith says. “I am alright. Again, I apologize...my intention was not to upset either of you.”

“It is alright, Mr. Hawkins,” Allura assures, “we appreciate your stories; I think I speak for both Mr. Shirogane and myself when I say you make our lives look rather tame in comparison.”

“Oh, er,” Keith starts, “I suppose your lives are exciting in their own ways…”

“There are certainly no snakes nor wolves,” Allura replies, and rises from the piano bench. “It is late, I am afraid I must retire to bed. Good night to you, Mr. Hawkins, Shiro. I will see you at breakfast.” She leaves them in a swish of skirts and Shiro knows it was purposeful. 

He and Keith sit alone now in the parlor. Keith turns back to the bookshelves.

“Does it hurt?” Shiro asks, at length.

Keith’s slim fingers curl around a slim red volume. “No,” he says. “Not much.” He rolls his shoulders; Shiro’s eyes track the movement. “But I am often sore; it’s expected in my line of work. This is just another old ache and pain.”

“You are too young to be full of aches and pains,” Shiro protests.

“And yet.” Keith turns around, holding the red book. “Hm. I’ve never heard of this one.  _ The Picture Of Dorian Gray.” _

Shiro’s breath hitches. Of all the bloody books in this parlor, he had to choose  _ that _ one. “Ah,” Shiro says. “Controversial book, that.”

Why did he say that.  _ Why did he say that?! _

But it’s too late to correct his folly; Keith’s eyes spark with mischief and he starts forward eagerly. “How so?”

Shiro extends a hand and Keith gives him the book. He has held it many times before, tucked away with it in a secret alcove or else in his bedroom, pouring over its pages, and the dangerous words they contain, the words that Shiro recognizes in himself. But maybe Keith will miss those parts. Maybe he will read it another way, an acceptable way.

“Some called it indecent,” is all Shiro says. 

“Did you?” Keith asks, eyes wide.

“I found it riveting,” Shiro says, and hands the book back to him. “It is yours, if you wish it.”

Keith gawks. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly —”

“I have a second copy in Pemberley,” Shiro says. “Don’t fret. Think of it as my gift to you, as compensation for me leaving.”

Keith eyes the book. “Is it really that good?”

“You shall have to read it for yourself,” Shiro says.

“So cryptic.” Keith opens the book and scowls. “How is it that this one has _ twice _ as many words on each page as  _ Frankenstein?” _

Shiro chuckles. “Take your time. Who knows when I shall return, and if you shall even be there then?”

“Who knows,” Keith murmurs, and tucks the book unto his jacket with care. 

*

That night, Shiro cannot sleep a wink. 

His mind is too preoccupied with other times, other places. Being ill gives him far too much time to think; he wishes he had thought to bring a book up with him, alas.

His eyelids are finally growing heavy when a strident cry splits the hushed darkness. Shiro sits up more suddenly than he ought to, but it does not send him into a coughing fit. 

The next thing he knows, he is on his feet, hurrying as fast as he dares out of his bedroom and down the hall. His chest and limbs protest, but he urges them onward, and for once they obey. The noise issues from the bedroom Keith chose. 

Shiro has to brace himself briefly against the wall, then the doorframe, but the handle turns and then he is standing before Keith’s bed, and his cries taper off into a choked whimpering sob. Shiro goes to him, leans over his writhing form — the sheets are soaked through with sweat where they tangle around his legs and arms as he claws at the mattress to no avail.

“Keith!” Shiro shakes him. “Keith you are dreaming, wake up, shhh, it’s alright, you’re —”

Keith's eyes snap open, unfocused and shocked as they land on Shiro, and then his clawing hands fall upon Shiro, strong arms wrapping around Shiro’s neck and dragging him down. He overbalances completely, falling into the bed and Keith’s shivery, thoughtless embrace. 

The warm, wet mouth that slips for an instant over his own is an accident, Shiro thinks blearily, a mistake of angle. On instinct, Shiro tears away from it though he longs for nothing more than to follow Keith’s lips deeper, to press him down and kiss him into slumber.

Keith makes a piteous sound as Shiro startles away, his vision sharpening into what Shiro expected — horrified realization. 

“You cried out,” Shiro whispers, halting. “Keith, are you —”

Keith touches his lips and blanches, trembling all over. “I — forgive me, did — oh,  _ no —” _

“Keith, go back to sleep,” Shiro says. “It was a mistake. You didn’t mean it, you were —”

“Asleep,” Keith breathes, although his eyes were open, his dream was gone.

Shiro takes a step back. He imagines Keith’s lips leaving brands on his skin. “Yes. Goodnight, Keith.”

Keith says nothing. Shiro closes the door.

*

Keith is gone before Shiro departs the next morning.

“He left in a hurry, sir,” the groom tells him. “Said to thank you for the book, that’s all.”

It hurts less than it should. Shiro can still feel Keith’s hands clasped over the nape of his neck, nails digging in through his nightshirt. 

Shiro says goodbye to Allura on the front steps. “I will write you often,” he promises, “and I expect you to visit if you are able.”

“And you as well, if weather permits,” Allura agrees.

“Would you tell Mr. Hawkins I write him often, too?”

Allura nods, studying him with a keen eye. “Did something happen last night?” she murmurs.

“A brief embrace,” Shiro replies, “an accident, that is all.”

“An accident.”

Shiro sighs, and looks to the horizon, to the sun now fully risen. “He is not like Adam,” Shiro sighs. “Or me.”

“You do not know that.” Allura sounds uncertain.

“You did not see his face,” Shiro retorts, resigned. He kisses her farewell on the cheek, and clambers into his carriage to Pemberley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 months later......a bitch never forgets ok and ya best bet i intend to finish this fic. here's to hoping the next update isn't 3 months from now (probably won't be since i now have A Plan.)
> 
> also, yes, i'm aware the publication dates of frankenstein and the pic of d.g. are pretty far apart. i recognize this fact and reject it because i want them to read both of these very relevant books together, ok. 
> 
> coming up next: PINING + FOND LETTER WRITING + DRAMA ;))))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P2N8PYyi1i6XNQHY4QayRRCOiQhbTTCGCvJ4gA3Sn4c/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> ^in advance, here's a link to a Much More Legible version of this chapter. i thought the fonts made the immersion a bit better but fair warning, this chapter probably looks pretty funky on mobile. should be good for desktop, but, if not.....google docs link.
> 
> also, if there are misspellings, it's because they add character ;D enjoy. also, PLEASE NOTE this is no longer the last chapter. just. uh. letting u know so you don't get to the end of this chapter and look at me in utter betrayal. HAHA. ANYWAY. please, continue, i hope you enjoy THE LETTERS™.

[Attached is a detailed portrait sketch of Keith, his hair slightly too long and falling in a careless tumble over his brow, which is furrowed just enough to give him a thoughtful air, almost meditative. His eyes are half-lidded, dark and glancing at something off to the side, his lips parted and nearly-smiling, stopped short by the pensive set to his fine jaw and thick eyebrows. His lashes are thick and curling, true to life, and cast soft charcoal shadows over his cheekbones, suggesting an unseen sun shining somewhere far above him.

It is obvious that whoever drew this portrait knew the subject well, and holds him in high regard, to say the least.]

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently i'm motivated by spite and love for takashi shirogane, which is, i think, valid. I just love him?? A lot? and he deserved better. so. here's that. raise your hand if you love shiro and keith and want them 2 be happy
> 
> slowly but surely....next and final chapter will be up quite soon <3

Alas, all is not well in Pemberley Hall.

A month after receiving Keith’s final letter, Shiro watches a carriage roll up the drive with a sense of impending dread.

No news is good news, but not in this instance. Shiro is no fool, nor is Keith. Or perhaps he ought to call him  _ Mr. Hawkins, _ now, he thinks bitterly, hands flexing where they grip the windowsill with ivory knuckles. He  _ knows _ it was a mistake to send the sketch. He knows that now. 

But at the time...at the time, all he could think of when he sat down to write the next letter was the curve of Keith’s lips, the light in his eyes, the timbre of his voice. All he could think of was the furrow of Keith’s brow, the intense scratching of his quill as he spilled his raw thoughts across the page, for Shiro, only for Shiro, a feeling he had to capture on pen and parchment before it was too late, and then…

And then that Keith was replaced by a distant, brusque stranger. 

It is this same stranger who meets him in the foyer when he hurries down to meet his guests. 

Lady Allura is all warmth and well wishes, and it is only when Shiro takes her into his arms and catches a whiff of her perfume that he is struck by the full weight of how dearly he has missed her. Both of their eyes are misty when she pulls away and pats his cheek, her fingers curling against his jaw and her gaze endlessly fond.

It is not just her whom he has missed, however. 

“Keith,” Shiro tries.

“Mr. Shirogane,” is the cool reply. Keith stands some distance behind Allura, observing his surroundings with a critical eye, pursing his lips at the gold filigree and marble statues. 

Allura’s gaze flickers, and she steps away from Shiro, standing between himself and Keith. “I, ah, believe the others should be along shortly, they are collecting their luggage…”

Shiro keeps looking at Keith. “You have no luggage?”

“I do not intend to stay,” Keith says.

“Ah.” Shiro forces a smile. “I am sorry to hear it.”

Allura sighs. “Keith is reluctant to leave Mr. Holt to fend for himself in Meryton, though he has quite enough help at the clinic as it is –”

“I made a promise,” Keith interrupts, and then looks away when Allura tips her chin up, brows arching in disbelief at his rudeness. “Apologies. But I did.”

Allura huffs and turns back to Shiro. “Dreadfully stubborn. Did he not make a promise to visit you long before any promise to Mr. Holt?”

Keith blanches and looks as if he would rather be anywhere but here. Shiro clears his throat. “My lady, really, there is no need to…”

They are saved by Mr. Lance Serrano, Mr. Garrett, and Miss Holt stumbling in through the door, arms laden with bags as the footmen fret over them with no small amount of exasperation, especially Miss Holt. Staggering under the weight of her duffel, she flaps her hands at the servants and shakes her head adamantly, braids flying every which way. “I am handling it,” she pants, “just fine on my own, thank you kindly.”

Keith dives in to help her before she overbalances and she glares so fiercely at him that even he backs off, hands lifted in surrender. Belatedly, Shiro wonders what he has gotten himself into with this motley collection of guests. Still, he lifts his hands and declares, “Welcome to Pemberley Hall, all of you. No matter how long you will be staying, I am glad to have you.”

“It’s a lovely estate,” Mr. Garrett says, beaming and marveling at the grand entry. “I have never seen a house with so many neoclassical statues, and all in such marvelous shape!”

Only Shiro sees the look of utter betrayal Keith casts upon Mr. Garrett. “Indeed,” Shiro says, smooth as ever though he is crumbling to pieces inside. “I believe the estate’s previous owner had a penchant for them. I found their presence slightly eerie at first...but they are familiar companions now, I find.”

Mr. Serrano laughs brightly. “Oh, I am sure! Who would not be pleased to live among such beautiful nymphs and Aphrodites?”

Allura sighs. “No doubt  _ you _ would, hm?”

Appropriately chastened, Mr. Serrano hastily assures, “Not so long as you were near, I assure you, my Lady.”

“Are they meant to be different women?” Keith mutters. “They all look awful similar to me.”

“To  _ you, _ yes,” Mr. Serrano huffs, whirling on his heel. “More discerning men know better.”

_ “Anyway,” _ Miss Holt says loudly before the twitch of Keith’s eye can manifest into a spiteful retort, “I found the river and the bridge we crossed over on our way up to be far more charming than any  _ nymphs.” _

Allura gratefully jumps in. “Why, the river was our favorite place to play as children when we had the pleasure of visiting Pemberley, was it not, Shiro?”

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Shiro agrees softly. “My father would always scold me for allowing you to get your petticoats in the muck. I never could convince him there was no telling you what to do, even as a little girl.”

_ “You _ had muddy petticoats?” Mr. Serrano exclaims with an air of scandalized delight. “What —  _ you?” _

“Yes,  _ me,  _ Lance, is that so far-fetched,” Allura chuckles, shaking her head. 

Shiro is struck by the familiarity between them, and he is glad for it, glad that Allura can act so at ease around someone other than himself or Coran...but he is also sorry that he missed the moment she became comfortable enough with Mr. Serrano to call him _ Lance. _

While Mr. Serrano continues to tease her, and she him, Shiro chuckles, “Come, we can take tea in the parlor if you like; you all must be tired from your journey. The servants can take your bags up to your quarters.”

Keith’s brow creases in disapproval and Shiro ignores it. Perhaps servants are not needed on American ranches, but they are vital in a place such as Pemberley. 

It is unsurprising that Keith moves to help the servants take the bags up. Mr. Garrett stops him with a gentle hand. “Keith, this is their job, and we are guests. Leave it be.”

Keith opens his mouth to protest and Miss Holt adds quietly, “At least they are paid.”

“Of course they are paid,” Shiro says. “What do you take me for, an American?”

Keith’s hands curl into fists. Lady Allura looks at him askance. “Shiro!”

“My apologies. I was, of course, in jest, and did not mean to offend. Please know, however, that all the servants here are paid well. Tea?”

Keith does not look at him for the rest of the evening. 

*

“I did not mean it,” Shiro says.

Allura sits beside him on the garden bench, enfolding his hands in her own. “I know. But it was still a foolish and cruel thing to say. The Crown has done just as many terrible acts as America, if not more. Much as we might wish to be, any moral high horse we ride is utterly imaginary.”

“I know, Allura, it was wrong of me...I...I wanted to provoke him,” Shiro admits, ashamed. “It is no wonder he loathes me so.”

“He does not,” Allura murmurs, “loathe you.”

“Lance practically had to beg him to even stay a single night under my roof,” Shiro whispers. “And he will leave tomorrow morning, still repulsed. And why shouldn’t he be?”

“You are a good man,” Allura says quietly. Her face is framed by the setting sun, and Shiro feels small beside her steady glow and the sure set of her mouth, shoulders slumping as she tightens her grip on his hands. “He was so worried about you,” she says. “He asked after your health often —”

“Oh, marvelous, so he does not only see me as repulsive, but as an invalid,” Shiro growls. “How splendid.”

Allura eyes him reproachfully. 

“I am sorry,” Shiro mumbles. “This is all my fault and I am afraid there is no remedy for it.”

“You could speak to him,” Allura retorts, and adds, “with care.”

“I would rather throw myself from the bridge,” Shiro says at once. 

She flicks his ear, hard. “Hush. There will be none of that.” She frowns, her shoulders slumping as well. “However, it may be best not to speak to him. I cannot say, Shiro.” She hesitates. “How did it begin with Adam?”

Shiro grimaces. “Drunkenness. It was a scene I would rather not repeat with anyone — least of all Keith.”

“But, did he confess? Did you? Was there any sort of cue that led you to know he was —”

“The cue,” Shiro says dryly, “was him putting his tongue down my throat. There was little guesswork involved.”

Allura is quiet for some time. “I see.” 

Shiro sighs. He looks out at the trees, branches swaying slow, and at the sun peeking through them. The setting sun paints the distant winding river in rich gold and rippling scarlet. “I wish you did not know this about me, sometimes.”

Allura frowns. “And why not?”

“How do you see me?” Shiro asks suddenly. “Here, now, how do you see me, knowing that this wretched weakness, wrongness, is a part of me, much as I have tried to destroy it?” He shakes his head. “What sort of man do you suppose I am?”

“A good one,” Allura repeats, firmer.

“Please. Do not lie to me.”

“It is no lie,” Allura snaps. Her nails dig into his fingers. “Takashi Shirogane, you listen to me. You are a good man but you do not know who you are, nor who you want to be, nor who you are meant to be. The only path you see open to you is one of self-denial and pain and I —” She exhales, her eyes shining, misty. “I want to believe there is another path for you, Takashi,” she murmurs. “Oh, there must be. Mustn’t there?”

“If Adam was that other path,” Shiro whispers, “then it is not one I wish to follow.”

“Did I ever say he was?” She pulls away and stands. Her expression is one not of pity but of resolve. “You know I love you. I want you to be happy. But this is something only you can do, in the end.”

“I do not think I can,” Shiro sighs. “But, then again, perhaps I have already lost him. What is the harm in making certain of it?”

“Do not approach this expecting loss,” Allura whispers. 

“But that is all I have ever known in this,” Shiro says. 

Allura shakes her head. “If that is all you ever wish to know in it, then do nothing. Goodnight, Shiro.”

Shiro watches her go, gliding through the gardens like a summer ghost. He sighs, leaning his forehead into his cupped palms, and does not scream although he has never wanted anything more.

No, that is not quite true. He wants Keith more than he wants to admit his failing.

“Damn you,” he whispers; to Keith, to himself, to the setting sun, he does not know. Something is damned, anyway, and he goes to bed with a heavy heart, knowing Keith will be gone come morning.

*

“We cannot,” Shiro whispers against Keith’s lips. 

“And why not,” Keith whispers back, crouched over him like a sleek predatory cat, poised to strike. 

Shiro shakes his head, knowing he could easily throw Keith off and onto the cold floor; but his body refuses to obey his churning mind. “There are a thousand laws, a thousand reasons, why this, why we, cannot be –”

Keith’s pale throat bobs in a hard swallow. “But you feel the same as I – my nature is the same as yours. Such a thing is so rare – for two of us to find each other, and in a world like this, so bound by decorum and secrecy –”

“You’re asking me to leave that decorum by the wayside,” Shiro hisses, his grip on Keith’s waist bruising. He can feel soft flesh and lean muscle in equal measure, both tantalizing in their closeness, separated from him by mere cloth. 

“Haven’t you already?” Keith whispers back, and Shiro’s restraint snaps like a torn sinew.

Keith gasps against his mouth as Shiro rolls him down into the rumpled quilt and kisses him hot and zealous, greedy, selfish; everything he promised himself he would not be. But it doesn’t  _ feel  _ selfish. It feels  _ right. _ It feels _ good.  _

“You will ruin me,” Shiro breathes over the quirked corner of Keith’s parted lips. 

“Is that an invitation?” Keith’s smile is as wicked as he is, and Shiro knew from the start that he was doomed, but feeling it, confirming it, framed by the wanton spread of Keith’s thighs and helplessly seeking the heat of him, is devastating. 

Besides, it does not ruin him when he tangles his fingers into Keith’s thick dark hair and tugs him down like an anchor, chasing the heat of his mouth, of his body, of his soft laughter against Shiro’s parted lips –

Shiro wakes up dizzy and panting in his bed, staring at the ceiling in a vague panic followed by hot shame which crawls up from his belly and into his throat, choking him the way he wishes Keith would – Shiro sits up, head in his hands, chest heaving,  _ no _ falling from his lips in a gasped tumble, then again, louder,  _ no, please, no _ as he gets his bearings of his surroundings and realizes his body’s awful echo of the dream – or nightmare.

His nails dig into his scalp in frustration. It has been – years, really, since he allowed such dreams to plague him, and though there will always be a few fragmented, passing visions, they are hard to recall and easy to banish from his mind, and body, afterwards. This, though. They have never been so vivid, he could – it felt like – Keith was  _ there, _ with him – 

“No,” he mumbles again, muffled in his palm, even as he collapses back down onto the bed, the ache in him refusing to fade. He lays there, breathing shallowly, and glances with a sort of furious despair at the telltale swollen shadow beneath his sheets and nightshirt. Shiro grits his teeth, thinks of vile things and castigation; to no avail. It is a futile endeavor, and it is the middle of the night, and he will be utterly unable to sleep until this is dealt with. 

That is what he tells himself as he rolls onto his side, shoving a pillow where he cannot see it and gripping the sheets with increasingly white knuckles as he ruts mindlessly, focusing on a spot in the wallpaper. It is an odd spot, like a bruise, somewhat purplish, dark against the lighter wall and if Shiro closes his eyes –  _ which he will not do _ – he can imagine it is a mark made with fingers, or better, with lips and teeth, pressing desire into a shivering throat –

Shiro bites down on his fist. It is a  _ wall.  _

But at least his predicament is dealt with.

Tragically, he cannot very well go to sleep in this state, either. Trying to move as little as possible, Shiro rises from the bed, shuffling to the wash basin to rid himself of the evidence. It is not a pleasant task, and at the end of it, he does at last scream into his own palm. 

And, because it was apparently foolish to consider that God might start being merciful now, he is now wide awake. He spends a few more seconds quietly screaming, then puts on some attire more suited to moping at midnight than an airy and quite ruined nightshirt. 

Pemberley Hall is silent as a grave as Shiro slips out of his rooms and down the hall. Moonlight spills through the wide windows, and the marble sculptures Hunk so admired gaze upon Shiro with sly blank eyes, their judgment more cunning and cruel than the saints adorning cathedral walls. They look down at him and seem to say, from white lips unmoving,  _ You cannot hide from us, just as you could not hide from him. We know. He knows. _

Shiro looks away from them, and slows his step, looking instead at the paintings framed in ornate gold, portraits and landscapes, all of people he does not know and places he has never been. He wishes, someday, to paint such dreamlike scenes. Rolling hills bathed in pink sunset, laced through with silver rivers and violets speckling lush earth, a place he has never quite been to, but can see well in his mind’s eye.

He follows the paintings to the library, and stops short.

There is a dark figure silhouetted against the moonlit window, sitting in the armchair in front of it. It is the chair Shiro prefers, though of course Keith would have no way of knowing this. Shiro begins to turn away, but is caught; Keith lifts his head and says with a note of surprise which rings out clear as crystal,  _ “Oh.” _

Shiro clears his throat, standing in the doorway. He feels a stranger in his own library. Perhaps it is because Keith fits so well there, curled into the curve of the armchair with an ease that is broken as he stiffens upright, fingers tightening on the upholstery. 

“It seems I was not the only one unable to sleep,” Shiro says. “I will leave you to your reading – you may light a candle, if you wish, for it is rather dark, even with the moon, and –”

“I am finished reading,” Keith says, and sets aside his book with a dull thud. Shiro flinches at the sound. Keith pauses. “But thank you for the suggestion.”

“Right,” Shiro says, “of course.” 

He ought to leave. But he cannot. Keith is so... _ so.  _ Shiro has no words for what he is, precisely. He gazes at Shiro from the other side of the library with eyes so unlike the statues; theirs are empty but his are so full, of what Shiro can never discern, but it is beautiful. 

_ He _ is beautiful. 

“It has been some time,” Shiro adds, mouth dry, “since we last saw each other.”

Keith’s brow lowers. “Yes.”

“I am glad to see you well,” Shiro says. “And I appreciate your being here, even if you were...reluctant to make the journey.”

Keith turns away, and Shiro’s heart sinks. “It was not reluctance,” he says, so quiet Shiro nearly misses it, “but hurt.”

“Hurt,” Shiro repeats, and hesitantly steps into the room. The door shuts behind him. Keith does not look up at the sound, but sits, slumped. Shiro frowns, and steels himself. “I will also admit to being rather hurt when you so abruptly ended our communication.”

Keith makes a low sound. “You?” he asks.  _ “You _ were hurt?”

Shiro’s frown deepens. “What, did you expect otherwise? I enjoyed our letters, Keith –”

Keith raises a hand; it’s shaking. “Don’t.”

Shiro should have just stayed in bed, sleepless or not. Instead, he takes another step forward. “It would seem I owe you an apology,” he offers, “though, truly, I cannot be certain what offense I have caused. If it was the book, or the portrait, then please know I did not desire to cause you pain or anger from either –”

“Then what  _ did _ you desire, Mr. Shirogane?” Keith snaps, turning to look at him with narrowed eyes and a vicious set to his jaw. 

Shiro swallows. “Keith, I –”

“You are not my brother,” Keith says. He sounds less vitriolic, more tired – exhausted, even. 

Shiro blinks. “What?”

“In your last letter,” Keith whispers. “You said you hoped I still felt the same about that, about you being my _ dear brother.  _ I don’t. You’re not that, to me. That’s all.”

Shiro does not  _ understand. _ The only conclusion he can come to is that Keith knows his secret, has discerned it somewhere in between illicit books and tender sketches, and is now rejecting him; as a friend, as a brother, as anything at all.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Shiro says. It is all he can say. “I apologize, then, for whatever caused you to change your mind.”

Keith looks away again, out the window, and into the moonlit night. He is quiet.

“You ought to get some sleep,” Shiro adds gently. “You have a long journey back to Meryton tomorrow morning.”

He turns to go, and just before he closes the door, Keith says, “It is good to see you, Shiro.”

“Goodnight, Keith,” Shiro sighs, and leaves him alone in the library.

*

Shiro sleeps poorly, rises early, and rides Blackberry across the bridge and through the hills, wishing to be as far away as possible when Keith departs Pemberley Hall. It is quite possible they will never see each other again. Shiro’s eyes sting at the thought. 

Allura would call him a coward for running, wouldn’t she? But he tried. As much as he was capable of, anyway. He has made Keith uncomfortable enough, he thinks. For the expression on Keith’s face was not one of loathing and anger, but of disappointment and sorrow — of pity. And that is somehow much worse.

Shiro does not need pity. He has had enough pity for several lifetimes, from himself and others. And it is a hard habit to break, but perhaps it will be easier, when Keith is gone. When Shiro is truly alone, maybe he can find peace. He sits back in the saddle, eyes tracing the blue wash of sky smudged with silver clouds. The world is lovely enough without someone to share it with, is it not? 

But he thinks of the dream, of Keith’s laughter spilling across his tongue, and fears the solitude he once yearned for will never be enough, after all. With only the trees and his broken stallion as witness, he curses Keith for ever stepping foot into Netherfield Park, no, into England. If only he had stayed on his side of the damned ocean. 

He returns to Pemberley Hall when the sun has fully risen and the morning carriage must have surely left already. But alas, it is still there when he leaves Blackberry in the stables, and he approaches the house with wary confusion which narrows into shock at the sight of Keith in the parlor, talking amiably with Allura and with no bags packed.

They pause at his approach, and inexplicably, Keith‘s face is pink, as if feverish or sunburnt. Shiro must make quite the sight, he supposes, with his wrinkled attire splattered with dirt and sweat-darkened from the long ride. Self-consciously, he sweeps his pale hair back from his damp brow and clears his throat. 

“Keith,” he says, and Keith looks positively alarmed at being directly addressed. No matter; Shiro doubts he can make Keith’s opinion of him much worse. “Are you not returning to Meryton?”

“Would you prefer that I did?” Keith replies, which is really no answer at all.

“No, Mr. Hawkins has decided to bless us with his presence a while longer,” Allura says, before Shiro can stammer out a reply. “I say, Shiro, you look a fright. Make yourself presentable, it’s Sunday.” Shiro blinks at her and she purses her lips. “Church, Shiro. We are going to church.”

Shiro splutters. “But — it’s well past eight already — !”

“Then you had better hurry,” Allura warns. 

He casts a look of betrayal at her, and a halfway apologetic glance at Keith, who is staunchly avoiding eye contact. “Very well,” Shiro sighs. “I’ll only be a moment.”

*

They are late to church.

Allura cares little for the judgment of others, and indeed, few would dare to judge her in her frothy yellow gown and immaculate updo of silvery hair. She smiles graciously at the few who do look her way, before taking a seat in the open back row of pews, lifting her chin and her hymnal, and taking solace in the knowledge that she is the highest ranking person in this chapel by far. 

Shiro sits beside her, with far less confidence. He has not attended church while at Pemberley Hall, and with good reason. He looks straight ahead, at the altar and the priest, for any further to the left, and he would see a most unwelcome face from the past. 

Lance, Miss Holt, Keith, and Mr. Garrett file in after him. Except, out of the corner of his eye, there is some sort of scuffle, and somehow Keith ends up sitting beside him in the pew, looking as though he hasn’t the slightest idea how he got there. Lance is glaring visibly at him, and even Mr. Garrett and Miss Holt look...miffed.

Shiro eyes him tentatively. As the sounds of the pianoforte and devout voices swell around them, he murmurs, “Is everything alright?”

Keith pauses on the cusp of the next verse of ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ His eyes dart to Shiro, brow low and jaw tight. “Fine,” he says. “Lance is just being Lance.”

“I see.” Shiro frowns at the stained glass windows. 

“Why aren’t you singing?” Keith says out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why aren’t you?” Shiro counters.

Allura gives them both a sidelong warning look, and sings louder. However, she has not yet resorted to smacking him with her fan, so they are safe for the time being.

Keith furrows his brow and sings the next verse out of spite. Shiro mouths the words. Keith huffs as the verse ends and mutters, “I don’t like this hymn. We have better ones.”

“‘We?’”

“In America.”

“Oh, of course.” Shiro barely resists rolling his eyes. “Is  _ everything _ better in America, even the churches?”

Keith hesitates. Concentration broken, he looks down at his shiny shoes, something pained in his eyes. “No,” he whispers, so soft Shiro almost misses it, “the churches ain’t better. Just the songs.”

Shiro isn’t certain he understands, but he stops asking. The hymn ends and the priest prays over the congregation. Shiro cracks an eye open and peers at Keith through his clasped fingers. Head bowed, he is cast in warmth by the morning light, patches of color scattered across his face by the stained glass windows – purple on the curve of his nose, red over his right cheek, gold streaked through his black hair. Shiro thinks again,  _ He is beautiful. _

Especially here, it feels like a forbidden thought. If the Lord can truly see all things, then he sees Shiro’s sins now. But, Shiro thinks with a sort of giddy despair, the Lord would know what was in his heart whether he thought it or not. 

And Shiro does not know how to change his heart. He has tried, again and again, and the Lord must know that too. So either he is weak, and Keith was sent here to tempt him; or what he feels cannot be changed. The more he looks at Keith, the more he believes it must be the latter, because accepting that Keith is beautiful does not feel like temptation, anymore. It feels right. 

If Keith  _ has _  guessed Shiro’s nature, he has said nothing of it. Silence is loyalty, in Shiro’s mind, and he does not think Keith is the sort who would cry wolf – hopes he is not, anyway. 

The congregation rises to greet each other and Keith stays seated, his gaze darting around with awkward unease. He does not know anyone else in the chapel, and that is for the best. Shiro stays beside him, and Keith eyes him with suspicion. “Don’t you have friends here?” he asks.

Shiro shakes his head. “There is a reason I have not attended church since arriving in Pemberley. I –”

He stops short as a shadow falls over them. “Mr. Shirogane.” 

Shiro stands, refusing to let this man speak down to him a second time. “Adam.”

Keith tenses, caught between them. Shiro holds Adam’s cool gaze. There is a woman standing beside him, petite with an impressive hat, adorned with all manner of plumage. She offers Shiro a bright smile. Adam’s brow lowers. Knowing him, he expects Shiro blames her. On the contrary, Shiro blames her least of all. Out of the three of them, she is, after all, the only innocent party. He pities her blissful ignorance, and he pities Adam for feigning ignorance. Evidently it has worked out alright for him, though, because there are two young boys tugging on the woman’s skirts, and both of their faces echo Adam’s more than hers. 

It has been seven years, but the reality does not set in until that very moment, seeing the children, Adam’s children. Both, Shiro would wager, must be around seven years old. Twins. How fortunate.

He expected it to hurt more than it does. Instead, he simply feels numb, as if it is not himself seeing the scene before him, but a stranger, one without a history with Adam, one who never felt the ensuing heartbreak; the anger, the grief, the despair, the loneliness.

“It has been so long, Mr. Shirogane!” the woman exclaims. Her name is Anne. She is quite pretty, quite kind, and she deserves better. “You are looking well. We had heard you returned to Pemberley Hall, but have not seen you around at all!”

“Indeed, it has been some time, Mrs. Waller,” Shiro says with a forced smile. “You all look well, also. What are your boys’ names?”

“Andrew and Arthur.” Adam shifts, partly in front of them, as if to shield them. From Shiro?  _ Hah. _ So  _ that _ is how this is going to be. The fury that bubbles up in his throat is cold, bitter. 

“They look like you,” Keith blurts. They all blink down at him. Keith stands, hastily.

Adam’s eyes narrow. “Who is this?”

“Why, you’re an American, yes?” Anne exclaims. The two boys lean forward with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell us you had an American friend, Mr. Shirogane!”

Shiro clears his throat. “Yes, er, this is Mr. Hawkins –”

“You can just call me Keith,” Keith interrupts, and takes Anne’s gloved hand, brushing a light kiss over the backs of her knuckles. She flushes and twitters at him. Adam’s brow lowers. Keith inclines his head to him. “How do you do, Mr. Waller? Shiro’s told me lots about you.”

Shiro sees the panicked clench of Adam’s hands only because he mirrors it. “Has he,” Adam grits out. “How wonderful.” He pauses, and turns back to Shiro. “My wife is quite right – it has been too long. If I may, I would gladly extend an invitation to you and your intriguing American friend for tea in three days’ time in Chatsworth House.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow, masking his utter shock. “And what of Lady Allura? She is here, as well.”

Adam opens his mouth, but Anne replies at once, “Oh, of course she is welcome as well! What a marvelous young woman. I must discuss the latest fashions I’ve received from Paris with her – she really has an eye for that sort of thing.”

Adam purses his lips. “Of course.”

Keith looks to Shiro, which is...unexpected. Shiro coughs into his glove. “Well, I suppose...tea would be, er, nice. That is...generous of you.”

“We were friends,” Adam says. His tone is flat and careful.

“We were young,” Shiro says. 

Anne laughs, a bit nervous. “We are still young! Come, now, boys. The sermon will begin soon. We will see you for tea, Mr. Shirogane...Keith!” She beams at them and shepherds the boys and her husband away. 

Everyone stands to sing another hymn. Shiro can hardly hear over the blood roaring in his ears. 

Keith touches his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Keith’s hand falls. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The words come out in a blurry rush. It is not fine. He does not wish to remain here, in this crowded room where the air is too warm, too close, and he swears everyone is looking at him, and knows.

“Shiro.” Shiro looks at him. Keith’s brow is crinkled in...concern? “Are you feeling alright?”

Of course. His damned  _ condition. _ Shiro frowns at him. “Yes.”

Keith does not relent. “You look as if you’re like to faint at any moment. Don’t lie.”

_ “I am not going to faint,”  _ Shiro snaps, because it’s the truth – he is dizzy not from weakness, not from sickness, but from anger. Regret, too, and sadness, and self-loathing which chokes him from the inside out. 

Keith flinches back. “Oh,” he says. “I – didn’t intend to pry.”

Shiro just shakes his head. “You’re not,” he sighs.

Keith chews his lip. “Was he the reason you haven’t been to church?”

Shiro nods. It is the simplest answer he can give.

“His wife seems nice,” Keith mutters. “What d’you have against her?”

Shiro’s shoulders slump. “I don’t have anything against her.”

“But you said –”

“Enough, Keith.”

Keith falls silent, and does not try to press further. Shiro’s gaze tears away from him, and settles heavy on the confessional booth, off to the side. His hands curl into fists, thinking of words whispered into that dark and ashamed space, thinking of penance tossed back like pennies. The pennies fall into open brown palms, bright metal like the pocket watch Shiro bought him. He was still wearing it, today, and Shiro thinks he hates him a little for that. 

Hate is a sin, too, but Shiro is drowning in them. What’s one more?

Shiro leaves before the sermon. Allura does not stop him, but her eyes say  _ sorry. _

Keith watches him go, a line between his brows, but Shiro does not see him.

*

The chapel graveyard is small and well-kept. Shiro has never liked graveyards. He does not wish to be buried among so many other bodies, kept in rows within their coffins, just out of sight. But some people find comfort in being with others even in death. He wonders if his father does. He had been a rather quiet man who kept to himself, though he had always been there for his son.

His father’s grave is modest, for he was but a steward, but Alfor ordered the finest marble for it, and the epitaph is neat, etched deep to stand the test of time. 

_ Sleep on now, and take your rest. _

_ Matthew 26:45 _

Shiro does not touch the headstone, but kneels before it, among the dry summer grass and the last of the wildflowers. Praying always feels like a futile endeavor for him, but he folds his hands anyway. His mind is a blank sheet of parchment. He does not know what to say. He never knows what to say to his father. 

It is a wicked thought, but sometimes Shiro is glad his father did not live to see him become a man. It saved him a great deal of disappointment. 

In the end, Shiro does not pray about anything. He just kneels there, emptying his mind, feeling the sun on his skin, the distant strains of hymns drifting on the breeze. He has fallen into a near trancelike state by the time someone behind him clears their throat.

Shiro’s eyes snap open. He glances over his shoulder.

It’s...Keith?

Keith startles back. “Didn’t intend to interrupt,” he says, waving his hands, “apologies, I was just, wonderin’ where you’d gone to, but, clearly you’re busy –”

Shiro stands, brushing grave dirt off his knees. “No,” he says. “No, I think I am done, here. Is the service over already?”

Keith shakes his head. “Nah.” His mouth twists. “It was getting too stuffy in there. Couldn’t breathe.”

Shiro huffs. “Oh, is that so? Or could it be that you just didn’t care for the hymns?”

“Little of both, if I’m being honest.” Keith scrubs the smile off his face with the back of his hand and jerks his head towards the grave. “Is that a, uh, friend of…” He trails off as he gets a good look at the headstone, and blanches, taking a step back. “Your father. I didn’t – realize he was here.”

“Well,” Shiro says, “not  _ here.  _ There.” He points down.

Keith blinks. _ “Shiro.” _

Shiro shrugs. “He died when I was a rather young child. I often forget what his face even looked like, much less his voice.”

“Sounds like you didn’t get along much,” Keith mutters.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t like that.” Shiro tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. “He was a good man. I miss him, it’s just...it was a long time ago. And it is hard to miss someone you barely remember. When I do remember...that is when it hurts the most. So I try not to. Is that wrong, do you suppose?”

Keith swallows. He stares at the quiet grave. “Will you forget me?”

Shiro pauses. “I – what?”

“When I leave.” Keith plucks a daisy from a patch of weeds. 

“You do not leave for many months,” Shiro starts, wary.

“Six months is not so many.” Keith looks up at him. “I would not blame you if you did. I am sure your father does not blame you. It is...easier to cast some people out of your mind.”

Alarmed, Shiro steps forward. “Keith,” he murmurs, “I do not wish to forget you. And I have your letters, so forgetting you shall be quite impossible.”

Keith’s lower lip trembles. “You should burn those letters,” he whispers.

Shiro cannot. “I will not,” he says. “I treasure them.”  _ I treasure you.  _

“I burned yours,” Keith says.

Shiro’s heart constricts. “All of them?”  _ Even the portrait? Especially the portrait. _

“If you wanted them back, you should not have sent them to me.”

“I did not want them back,” Shiro whispers. “I wanted you to have them.”

Keith stares at him with inexplicable fierceness. “Why don’t you people ever say what you mean?” he snaps. “Just once, one goddamn time, I’d like a straight answer.”

Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. “About what, Keith?”

Keith breathes in and out harshly through his nose. “If this were the West,” he says, “I’d challenge you to a gunfight right about now.”

“A  _ gunfight?!” _ Shiro yelps. “Why – why do you want to  _ shoot _ me?”

“I don’t.” Keith’s jaw works. “That’s the problem.”

Shiro folds his arms. “You’re angry with me.”

“No.”

“But – you just said –”

“Friends can get into gunfights,” Keith says. “Best friends always do.”

Shiro has no response to that except, “I don’t have a gun.”

“And this,” Keith sighs, “is why I cannot be angry with you. Come on, Shiro. Do you want to stand in the graveyard all day?”

“I do not want to go back to church,” Shiro grumbles, more than a little petulant, though he is more relieved than he can say that Keith is not – somehow – angry. 

“That ain’t what I’m suggesting,” Keith says, and nods towards the woods. “It’s blackberry season.”

Shiro gawps at him. “But – our church clothes –”

“You live in a damn castle,” Keith retorts. “Buy new church clothes. Besides – thought you said you didn’t go to church.”

“Very well,” Shiro says weakly, recognizing when he’s lost. “Lead the way.”

“This ain’t a gunfight, Shiro,” Keith adds, and smiles, and hope flutters tiny wings in Shiro’s chest.

*

They stumble back to Pemberley Hall in late afternoon with sore feet, dirtied attire, and hands stained violet. Most importantly, they come bearing pockets full of juicy, ripe blackberries. 

(They stop at the stable first to feed Blackberry the very best of the berries, of course.) 

Allura runs out to them, stopping short at the sight of their disheveled state. “Shiro!” she exclaims. “We hadn’t a clue where you were, and Keith vanished too, and – what  _ have  _ you done?”

Keith lifts up his hands. “Found some good blackberry bushes,” he declares. 

As if summoned, Hunk jogs down the drive. “Did you say blackberries? Keith, you are my new favorite. Come, come, I want to make tarts – oh, or perhaps pies! Which do you prefer?”

“I like pie,” Keith says with a grin. 

“Pie is good,” Shiro agrees. Once again, he cannot look away from Keith, but this time is not like in the church. Out here in the open air, Keith looks wilder, freer, and Shiro feels freer too. 

There is a dark vivid smear of blackberry juice painted over his cheekbone. Shiro knows it would taste sweet, even sweeter than the berries.

Allura heaves a sigh, but she is smiling, too.

When the pies are done that night, the mess is forgotten by all but Shiro, who looks at Keith over his slice of pie and remembers thorns snagging on their clothing, Keith caught in the brambles with a loud curse. Shiro freed him with clumsy gloved fingers, but a single thorn broke off and pierced through, ruining the thumb of his white glove with a red bloom. 

Keith had taken Shiro’s wrist in his hands, slipped the glove off and studied the puncture, then lifted Shiro’s hand to his lips and sucked on the tip of his thumb, yanked out the small thorn in a sharp sting of teeth, and spit somewhere into the undergrowth. It was so quick it could have been imagined, if not for the faint pink mark in Shiro’s thumb, and the dark pink of Keith’s face in the aftermath, as if realizing what he had done.

“Thank you,” Shiro had said, tucking his shaking hand to his side. His thumb tingles with the burning touch of Keith’s mouth, even now.

Keith had not run, he had not yelled or gone on the defense. Instead he just blinked, and said, in a voice too soft for a bramble patch, “Of course, Shiro.”

Keith looks back at him, eyes filled with laughter and mouth filled with pie, and when Shiro smiles at him then, he does not turn away.

*

Chatsworth House is a grand building, of old money and built among burbling brooks and sprawling horse pastures.

“It is not as fine as Pemberley,” Keith says, nose nearly pressed to the glass.

Allura clicks her tongue. “Now, now.” But she sounds more approving than scolding. 

Shiro is quiet, wringing his hands as subtly as possible. Allura nudges him. “How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” Shiro says.

Keith watches them both, but does not ask questions they will not – cannot – answer. 

“It is just tea,” Allura says. “You will be able to avoid him, if you must. I, on the other hand, will likely be ensnared for the afternoon by Mrs. Waller.”

“Anne is much better company than her husband,” Shiro sighs. “I would rather have tea with the Waller twins, but I doubt he will let me within earshot of them.”

Keith leans forward, unable to help himself. “Why does he not want you near his children?”

Shiro tenses. Allura shakes her head. “Mr. Waller is not a reasonable man, Keith,” she says. “He harbors...resentment against Shiro.”

“What sort of resentment?”

“The sort only found between those who were once dear friends,” Allura replies firmly. “It is both highly personal and highly absurd, and Shiro is not to blame for it. That is all that is important.”

Keith leans back. “Hm. Why would he invite you for tea, then? Could it be he wants to apologize?”

“He is not the apologies type,” Shiro murmurs. “I suppose, often, neither am I.”

“But I thought you were not to blame.”

“He does not agree.”

The carriage stops in the wide drive and the footman opens the door.

“It will be alright,” Allura whispers as Shiro steps out.

She could not have been more wrong.

*

“Is this very different from American tea, Mr. Hawkins?” Anne asks. She wipes scone from her lips with a dainty handkerchief, embroidered with swallows and roses. 

Keith peers into his cup, nonplussed. “We mostly drink coffee out West, ma’am,” he admits. 

“Coffee! Oh, I see. How  _ exotic.” _

Keith grimaces. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Shiro bites his tongue before he can inform her that tea is just as, if not moreso, ‘exotic.’ 

“I have never liked coffee,” Adam says, and sips his tea. 

“It is an acquired taste,” Shiro counters. “Milk and sugar certainly helps.”

“I drink it black,” Keith says.

“Ah.” Shiro dumps a sugar cube in his tea. The  _ plunk _ is too loud. Both Adam and Keith wrinkle their noses. Shiro drinks it all, though it is much too sweet. 

“Mrs. Waller, I would be delighted to see those Parisian gowns you mentioned earlier,” Allura cuts in as the silence turns tense. 

Anne claps her hands. “Oh, yes, let’s! I have one in lavender I think you’ll just adore…”

Allura glances over her shoulder as the two women leave the three men in the parlor. Shiro never knows precisely what she is planning, but he does not like this particular plan.

He sets down his teacup and works up the courage to look Adam in the eyes. “So. How have the last seven years treated you?” 

Adam lifts his brows. “I believe I ought to be asking you that question. My situation is clear — a fine house, a fine family, a fine reputation. Yours is far more foggy, Takashi.”

“Do not call me that,” Shiro warns. Adam’s hand tightens on his teacup. They are not off to a good start, but they ended on a poor note, too. “My situation is quite secure.”

“Secure,” Adam repeats. “The Earl is dead. Is it true he gave you Pemberley? I suppose that is convenient for you and your...lifestyle choices. Choices which, again, I entreat you to reconsider, for your own good.”

Keith looks as if he wishes to say something. Shiro prays he does not. “I am not getting married. We have had this discussion already, too many times to count. There is no need for heirs.”

“No?” Adam eyes him. “And how is your illness?”

“He is fine,” Keith says, and Adam looks to him in surprise.

_ Damn it all, _ Shiro thinks. Hardly anyone knows of his illness — Adam had not expected Keith to be aware of it.

“Is he, now.” Adam tilts his head. “Somehow I doubt that. Did you have another episode?”

“That is absolutely none of your business,” Shiro growls. “Do not feign concern now, after so many years, after such callous behavior —”

“Oh,  _ I _ was callous? You were the one who left —”

Shiro’s expression must be ugly indeed; his words certainly are. “You gave me no bloody choice. How could I possibly remain after what you did? You are  _ not _ my  _ friend. _ You will never  _ be _ my friend —”

“Shiro!” Keith exclaims, appalled.

Adam’s expression is pained. “Get some fresh air. Perhaps I was wrong to invite you here…”

Shiro does not stay to hear the rest. He storms out, and foolishly wishes Keith will follow.

Keith does not follow, and it is not until Shiro has been standing on the balcony for some time, remembering how to breathe while curling and uncurling his fists, that he realizes it was a mistake to leave the two of them alone together.

White hot panic flares in his head, and he hurries back to the parlor, pulse racing. He prays he is simply paranoid. He prays he does not know Adam as well as he thinks he does. He prays Adam is not telling him —

“...do you mean?”

Shiro stops outside the parlor door, tipped slightly ajar. He stays hidden in the shadows and listens.

“I mean, Mr. Shirogane is a sodomite,” Adam says.

Shiro slumps against the paneling. He tastes bile. 

Keith’s voice, fainter than usual.  _ “What?” _

“Do you call them something else in America?”

“N-no, I just —  _ how _ — you must be mistaken.”

“I am not. You see...he seduced me. That is why, well...we are not on speaking terms.”

“Seduced...you…?”

Shiro wants to vomit. Keith sounds...horrified. Bewildered. Repulsed.

“I was young and drunk and utterly foolish,” Adam says. “It was easy, too easy, for him to lure me into his bed —”

“Lure?! No. That isn’t — Shiro wouldn’t do that. I don’t believe you. Lady Allura said he was not to blame for what happened between you. I believe  _ her.” _

“She believes his side of it,” Adam says. The worst part is, he sounds genuinely rueful, like he truly believes what he is telling Keith. “But she was not there, Mr. Hawkins. He wanted me to give up my entire life, my future, to be with him. What sort of future is that? I soon realized such a thing could not, should not, be. Still, he dragged me into corruption and sin. I confess to that, and I regret it every day.”

“You got married,” Keith says. “And he was angry.”

“Furious. He stopped speaking to me. He left the court, once the rumors about him reached a fever pitch.”

“What rumors? That he is…” Keith cannot even bear to  _ say _ it. Well, that makes two of them.

“There is a reason he refuses to marry,” Adam says. “He will not bed a woman — cannot, maybe. And I fear...he may try to ensnare you as he tried with me. I wished to warn you...you ought to know the truth about him.”

“The truth about whom?”

Shiro strides into the room. He is again all at once numb yet awash with emotion. Keith looks up, stricken. Adam turns away. At least he has the decency to look guilty. “Nothing. No one. Are you feeling more level headed?”

“No,” Shiro says. “We are leaving.”

“Shiro,” Keith starts. His voice wobbles. His eyes shine with raw uncertainty. 

“Return on foot if you wish, but I am leaving,” Shiro repeats.

Keith scrambles to his feet, and spills tea everywhere. Adam leaps up. The sugar bowl is overturned, scattering crystals over the rug.

“I will go with you,” Keith says.

The triumph Shiro feels then is hollow, for he can still see the fear and confusion in Keith’s face. But they leave the parlor together, Shiro marching downstairs ahead and Keith hurrying to keep up. A servant is sent to fetch Allura. They wait for her in the carriage. The silence is excruciating, seconds strung together like the links of a heavy chain. 

“Is it true?” Keith asks.

Shiro pauses. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Keith whispers.

Shiro exhales. “Are you afraid of me?” He must ask, must know Keith’s answer, no matter how devastating.

But Keith gazes at him with shining eyes and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I trust you. I trust you more than him. You wouldn’t — you aren’t like that.”

Shiro swallows. “Like what?” 

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Keith says. “You wouldn’t trick me, or him. If...if it happened, it didn’t happen like he said it did.”

“How do you know?” Shiro’s voice is rough, unsteady.

“I know you,” Keith says. “Shiro, I know you.”

The carriage door opens for Allura. “Takashi?” she says. 

“I apologize if you saw any gowns you wanted,” Shiro says, “because we are never returning to Chatsworth House so long as I have breath in my body.”

She slumps down into her seat. “Noted. They were fine gowns, but not fine enough to justify that look on your face. Who insulted whom?”

“It does not matter,” Shiro sighs. He leans his head against the window. 

“Doesn’t it?” Allura slides her gloved hand into his. “It matters if he insulted you, because Shiro, he is wrong about you.”

“Is he?” Shiro pinches the brow of his nose. There had been conviction in Adam’s voice. Over the years, evidently, he had convinced himself Shiro was at fault, Shiro had coerced him into action. Some of the memories are hazy, yes, but Shiro does not remember coercion and reluctance. 

He remembers  _ he _ was the scared one — scared they would be discovered. He knew the risks. He knew they would be ruined, perhaps even imprisoned, if the word got out, if they were revealed by even a single misstep. 

But this was no misstep. This was calculated. 

Keith sits across from them, watching with quiet intensity. The carriage rolls onward, and Shiro does not look at him, nor at Allura. He instead looks out at the rolling hills, bathed in a dull purple as the sun sinks to kiss the horizon, and thinks of a world where he is not evil.

*

Shiro asks Allura to apologize to his guests for his absence and poor hospitality before retreating to his study for the rest of the day. Keith does not comment, just observes. He does not try to stop Shiro, or question him further. Shiro closes his study door and collapses into his chair, putting his head in his hands. He counts to ten, then goes to his bookshelves and plucks the first volume he sees off the shelf. 

Stories have always been an escape for him, but this time, it is difficult to stay engrossed. The more stories he reads, especially the romances, the more he longs for a story he belongs within. Once, he thought Dorian Gray was that story. But Keith’s letter haunts him –  _ I tire of reading only stories about ill-fated men destined to wander alone always, disguised as tales of monsters. _

None of the stories about men like himself, people like himself, have happy endings. Not a one.

And Shiro is tired of that, too. 

He sets down his book and does not realize he has drifted off until he awakes with a start in cool darkness, the sun long set. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up from where he had sprawled across his armchair, and sighs. At least his sleep was utterly dreamless. The abandoned book before him sits forlornly on his desk, and…

It is not alone. There is another book, a slim red volume on the edge of the desk. Shiro’s breath catches, mortified. Keith was – Keith was _ here. _ Shiro stands in a hurry, wiping his mouth, good Lord, did Keith see him drooling all over the seat cushions – before pausing, leaning down to peer at the small note tucked just under the book’s spine.

_ Shiro, _

_ I am proud to call you my friend. Know this, if nothing else. _

_ The greenhouse moonflowers are in full bloom to-night. I find their scent brings peace to troubled minds. It does to mine. Perhaps they will help you, too. _

_ Keith. _

The ink is still wet. Shiro sucks in a breath. He scans the room, the dark blue shadows and the hush of the evening which has fallen over the house heavy and soft as a winter quilt. Keith’s note slips into his pocket like a promise. Shiro looks at the book on the desk. Its gilded letters gleam in the moonlight. They have brought him comfort, but not near so much comfort as Keith has. 

For those are but words, fantasies – Keith is real. 

And perhaps Shiro is doomed to solitude, as those like Adam believe, but perhaps he is not. And if there is a chance, any chance at all, he is going to take it. He  _ deserves _ a chance, the chances so many others take for granted. The chance to be happy. The chance to be loved. The chance to love, with all his heart.

Shiro goes to the greenhouse.


	5. Chapter 5

The humidity clings to his skin and the wide, dark leaves of tropical plants rustle in hushed whispers as he picks his way down the narrow path. He has never been to the greenhouse at night. Tucked within the conservatory, it is a secluded space, almost an otherworldly realm. It is easy to imagine fairies flitting from red hibiscus to waxy orange blossoms, hiding their little faces amidst pink oleander and under the delicate bell-shaped lily-of-the-valley. 

It is easy, then, to imagine he is still dreaming when he sees Keith, sitting on a stone bench before the tangled moonflower vines, cupping one of the palm-sized silver-white blooms in his hands with care. Keith is dressed for another time, another place – his breeches are loose and a little ragged, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up around his elbows, exposing the golden sheen of his forearms. His hair is not tied back, but falls with chaotic elegance around his face, curling at his nape. 

Shiro does not know how to announce his presence. His hand closes around the note in his pocket reflexively. The paper crinkles, and Keith looks up.

“You came,” he says, faintly startled. “I – I was not sure if you would.”

Shiro swallows. He takes a halting step forward. “Why would I not?”

Keith tilts his head. A lock of hair falls into his eyes. “There are many reasons,” he murmurs, “too many to count, I think. But...I am glad you are here.”

Shiro walks around to stand in front of the moonflowers, but does not sit on the bench; he keeps a measured space between them, as he has always tried to do. “You were right,” he tells Keith. “Their scent is lovely.”

Keith’s breath catches audibly. “It is.” He shifts forward on the bench. “Their color reminds me of your hair. Bright, yet soft. Like moonlight.”

Shiro freezes, hand halfway to touching one of the blooms. It drops back, limp, to his side. “Is that so,” he whispers.

Keith nods. “Yes.”

Shiro looks back at him. “May I sit with you?”

Keith’s face is open, at ease, somehow. “Yes,” he says again.

Shiro sits. The bench is hard and cool and Keith’s warmth emanates from him as if he is one of the greenhouse plants, flourishing in these glass walls, flowering.

“How are you?” Keith asks, angling his body away from the flowers, towards Shiro. 

Shiro’s brow creases. “My lungs are quite –”

“Not that,” Keith chuckles. “How did you sleep?”

“Well,” Shiro says, uncertain. “Have you not slept, yet?”

Keith ducks his head. “Er, no. I…” He exhales. “I find myself unable to sleep in Pemberley Hall.”

“Why not?” Shiro leans closer, alarmed. “Are your quarters not to your liking, or –”

Keith’s lips quirk. “My quarters are fine. It is not – that. It is...it is  _ you.” _

Shiro leans away. “I...I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Keith’s eyes are luminous when they meet his. “It is alright to understand me, Shiro,” he whispers. “It is alright.”

Shiro does not, cannot answer. 

Keith sighs like he was expecting this, and reaches into his breast pocket. From it, he withdraws a small, folded square of parchment. Its corners are dull, worn away by many touches. Shiro holds his breath as Keith unfolds it. 

They stare at the portrait of Keith together. It is smudged in places, torn a little at the edges, but it has been folded neatly, many times, and unfolded just as many. It is like an old book – well-loved.

Keith’s hands shake as he whispers, “I lied, Shiro. I did not burn any of your letters. I kept every one.”

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. He does not think when he reaches out and covers Keith’s shaking hand with his own, so that they hold the portrait together. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, and slumps into his side. They both shudder at the contact. Shiro’s hand slides away from Keith’s, up his bare forearm, cupping his bent elbow, stroking along his shoulder slow, so slow, and then over the back of his neck until his fingers can curl just so into Keith’s hair, cradling Keith’s head against the crook of his neck. Keith’s breath is quick, shallow, but he does not pull away. “Shiro, he says again. The moonflower and the portrait fall from his hands, fluttering to the earth at their feet.

_ No one can see us here,  _ Shiro thinks. They are safe, here under the swaying palms and the sweet night blooms.

“When you called me your brother,” Shiro murmurs, “I thought…”

“It was the only word I had,” Keith presses his face to where Shiro’s cravat, half undone, gives way to skin, “for what I felt, _ feel,  _ for you.”

“And what is it,” Shiro whispers, “that you feel?”

He needs Keith to say it.

Keith’s lips brush over his neck. “Mr. Shirogane,  _ Takashi, _ I have fallen for you, terribly.”

“It is not terrible,” Shiro gasps, his other hand clasping tight around Keith’s waist, fitting perfectly over and around the lean curve of his hip. “It is not.”

“No,” Keith agrees, lifting his head, fingers tracing Shiro’s jaw. “It has taken me...too long, I think, to know that, but it is not.  _ You _ are not – I knew that from the start.”

“You have bewitched me,” Shiro tells him, helpless, “body and soul, and I – please, if you have any reservations, tell me to go now, and I shall, but first I must tell you –”

“I have no reservations,” Keith breathes, and kisses him, clumsy and artless and better than any dream, than any words scrawled across a yellowed page. His lips are soft and he tastes of blackberries, a sharp wild tang in the back of Shiro’s throat. When Shiro’s hand tightens in his hair, he gasps against Shiro’s mouth, and presses closer with a pleading sort of sound. It is nighttime but Shiro swears he can feel the heat of sunshine in Keith’s body against his own.

They pull away too fast, for it is too much; Shiro’s blood sings with a song he thought he had forgotten. He takes Keith into his arms, as he has wanted to the very first moment he saw him, and buries his face in Keith’s shoulder, breathing him in.

Keith clutches at his back. “What were you going to tell me?” he whispers, breathless.

Shiro closes his eyes. “That I love you,” he says into flushed skin. “Most ardently.”

The noise Keith makes is like a sob, but it is not a noise of grief. “And I, you,” he gasps, “Shiro, I love you, I do,  _ yes.” _

Then it is Keith who kisses him, already more practiced than before, sighing into Shiro’s mouth and letting Shiro guide him down, down, ‘til he lays with his back on the bench, Shiro braced over him. Keith is hungry for it, for hands and mouth and skin and sighs, and with each passing moment Shiro remembers this, remembers why he risked so much for this. Except this time, it is better, because it is with Keith – _ Keith, _ who, when Shiro pulls back to breathe, looks up at him with hooded eyes and earnest trust, utterly unguarded. No one has ever looked at Shiro quite like that before.

When Shiro leans in again, it is to brush a kiss over Keith’s cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, silk-soft, pulse thudding under his tongue. Keith moans, and it is quiet, but enough to still him, and to make himself aware of certain...things. 

“We should not,” Shiro starts, face hot, “here.”

“Oh…” Keith swallows audibly, pink dusting his cheeks. “I – will take your lead, on that.”

Shiro blinks, sensing a deeper uncertainty. He sits up and tugs Keith gently with him. Keith scratches the back of his neck. Shiro pushes Keith’s messy hair out of his eyes and makes a soft, enquiring sound. “Are you alright, Keith?”

Keith nods, and coughs into his fist. “Much as I may talk of brothels and act without decorum, I have never really...done. This. Any of this.”

Shiro’s eyes widen. He touches his own mouth. “Not even…”

“You were my first kiss,” Keith whispers, low and rough. “And I am glad for it.”

Shiro takes Keith’s face in his hands, so overwhelmed he can hardly speak. “I thank you for telling me,” he whispers back, “for I am more determined now than ever to do this properly.”

Keith’s eyes dart to and fro, searching his face. “This?”

“I wish to court you, properly,” Shiro says, resolve and words gaining strength as he gives them voice. Keith’s eyes widen. “Keith, I do not want this to be a single night.”

“Nor do I,” Keith breathes, “but,  _ court me,  _ I –”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Behind closed doors, in the woods, in letters – we could do it. Yet, I know – I  _ know _ you have obligations to your family. They expect a marriage and children and –”

“Every second I spend with you,” Keith interrupts, “I become less and less certain I can fulfill those obligations.”

“Do not think of obligations, then,” Shiro says. “Think of what  _ you _ want, Keith. Think of a future that  _ you  _ want.”

Keith’s grip on him turns bruising. He tips his head up and he is awash in moonlight, lovelier than any marble statue, eyes brimming. “Kiss me,” he begs, and then again as Shiro gathers Keith up against him, standing before the moonflowers and kissing him breathless, “Kiss me, kiss me,” and again, splintered, as Shiro presses Keith’s arching body to the glass paneling and fragrant vines,  _ “kiss – me.” _

The words swell and break and tumble between them. Keith whimpers into his cravat. Shiro does not let go. 

“Let me take you to bed,” Shiro murmurs over the shell of his ear. “For the night, for as many nights as we may have.”

“Yes,” Keith says, and slips his hand into Shiro’s. “Please, yes.”

Then they both see the portrait on the stones, crumpled and smudged with dirt from their stumbling about. Keith lets out a dismayed yelp and dives for it, apology in his eyes before Shiro shakes his head fondly and says, “There will be other portraits, far better ones...for you will be there, in the flesh.”

“I will,” Keith says, his relief palpable. He tucks the portrait back into his pocket anyway. “But this one will always be my favorite.”

Shiro smiles, and offers his arm. Keith snorts, but takes it, and stays close, tucked into Shiro’s side. They walk slowly back through Pemberley Hall. Keith looks up at the wide windows, the starry sky, the looming portraits and the watchful statues, and says, “You would be lonely here, Shiro.”

“I am,” Shiro replies, absently.

Keith inhales. “You should not be.”

“I am not, with you,” Shiro adds. 

“Good,” Keith whispers. “I am not lonely with you, either...I forget I am an ocean away from home.”

Shiro half-expects their entry to his bedroom to be barred, but the door swings open, and closes behind them just as easily. Keith releases his arm, and wanders towards the bed, hand settling on the down quilt. There is no tension in his shoulders. He keeps his back to Shiro when he says, “What do you desire from me?”

Shiro exhales. “All you would give,” he admits, and steps forward. Keith shivers, harder when Shiro’s hands fall upon his waist. “But tonight...you told me you had trouble sleeping, here, and that I was the cause of it. Do you suppose sleeping with me beside you might help?”

Keith’s shiver shifts to a delicate tremble. He nods at once. “Can we – I want –” and he begins to unlace his shirt, and curses, bitten-off and awed, when Shiro’s hands slip under the hem to help him lift it up and off. Shiro’s touch lingers over the dip of his spine, the rippling expanse of his shoulders and the softness of his sides. Shiro folds the shirt and places it on the ottoman. Keith turns around, and starts on Shiro’s laces. His fingers are sure and he makes quick work of them. 

They stand facing each other, bare-chested, just looking. 

“You are beautiful,” Keith tells him, and Shiro must kiss him again.

“That first day, in the stream, in the woods,” Shiro murmurs between kisses, nudging him down into bed and climbing over him, stroking the skin he once thought to be the embodiment of temptation. But it is just skin, warm beneath his palms, flexing with Keith’s every breath and twist under him. “Did you  _ hope _ to drive me mad, or were you simply unaware –”

Keith huffs, black hair fanned out over the white pillows. “I am not a fool, Shiro,” he replies, eyes twinkling. “Though...I did not expect it to work so –  _ ah _ – well.”

Shiro chuckles and swats lightly at his head. “I nearly throttled you that day in the library, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Keith hesitates. “I...did truly fear you were rejecting me then, though. That was why, after, I...I was afraid, and then, when you got sick, and that night that I accidentally...”

“I am sorry,” Shiro whispers, and kisses him in soft apology. “I wish...oh, I wish I could have told you that very night at the ball in Netherfield Park.”

“How would you have done it?” Keith asks, arm curling tight around Shiro’s waist. They lay now on their sides, unable to stop touching, feeling, taking comfort in each other.

Shiro smiles. “I would have asked you to dance,” he says, “and asked you all about your home, your family, your dreams...I would have told you how very much I admire you.”

“You would have known me not even an hour!” Keith laughs, but his eyes are shiny.

“True,” Shiro says, “but I would have wanted to know more. I wanted you. I still do.”

“Really,” Keith murmurs, shifting closer against the more unsubtle parts of him, “I had not noticed.”

“Oh, hush,” Shiro says, stilling his hips. “I am courting you, remember?”

“As long as I get to court you, too,” Keith relents. “I will give you flowers. You do that, don’t you? And every flower has a meaning, like a whole new language...I like that.”

“What meanings would you put in my bouquet?” Shiro asks, carding his fingers through Keith’s hair. His eyelids are heavy, and his body thrums with a warm, constant, resonating pleasure. Keith looks much the same, and curls closer with a sleepy sigh.

“Affection,” Keith says into a slow kiss.

“Morning glories,” Shiro replies.

“Friendship, of the truest kind,” Keith murmurs over the smiling curve of Shiro’s cheek.

Shiro allows himself to nuzzle into Keith’s hair. He smells like summertime. “Ivy and iris.”

“Faithfulness.” Keith throws the blankets over them. 

“Hmm...violets.”

Keith hums. “Good health and a long life.”

Shiro gives him a look and Keith kisses him into answering. “Blue salvia, snapdragon.”

“Beauty.”

Shiro flushes. “I...calla lilies, or carnations –” 

“I like lilies.” Keith smiles and nudges his nose against Shiro’s. “Happiness.”

“Yellow roses and dandelions...anything bright, really. There are...many flowers for happiness.” 

They snuggle as close as they can be, and it is a simple thing, closing one’s eyes with another beside you, yet there is nothing else like it in the world. 

“True love,” Keith whispers. In the quiet of the room, it is almost too loud, but Shiro does not flinch. He kisses Keith’s brow, and he is at peace.

“Red roses,” Shiro murmurs like a lullaby, “acacia, gardenias, jasmine, zinnias, forget-me-nots.”

“I won’t,” Keith sighs, half-asleep. “I won’t forget you.”

“Never,” Shiro agrees. “Goodnight, Keith.”

Keith squeezes him tighter in reply.

*

The morning makes it real.

Keith is still there, solid, warm, asleep in Shiro’s arms. Sunlight filters in through the curtains, streaking scattered dust motes across the room and over the bed. Keith’s nose scrunches up when Shiro painstakingly extricates himself from the bed, but he is successful in not waking his handsome bedmate.

It is natural for Shiro to reach for a piece of parchment and begin to sketch Keith’s sleeping form. He is a basking beauty in the patches of sun on messy sheets, lean torso as soft in rest as it is strong in composition. The fall of his hair over the pillow is enchanting, a piece of night sky that survived the dawn. And his face, his face is serene, not lined with worry or uncertainty but truly peaceful, truly free.

This expression does not vanish when he opens his eyes and sees Shiro sitting at the window seat, sketching him. His lips curve upwards in a sweet crescent. “So it wasn’t a dream,” he yawns. He stretches with a languid groan, and Shiro is definitely going to sketch that later, too.

“No dream,” Shiro replies. “You’re quite awake. How did you sleep?”

Keith’s smile is dopey. “Real good,” he murmurs. “Better than I have in years.” He nods to the parchment. “Can I see?”

“It is not done…” Shiro sits down on the edge of the bed and lifts up the parchment. Keith’s face and body are more of a suggestion of light and shadow defined in a few harsh dark strokes than anything else.

Keith peers at it and whistles. “You got a damn gift, Takashi.”

“I practice,” Shiro starts, and stutters off into silence when Keith puts a finger over Shiro’s lips.

Keith points at the paper. “You don’t just get that from practice. You  _ see _ me. Not everyone can do that — most people can’t.”

“I enjoy seeing you,” Shiro replies, “so, that is a marked advantage.”

“But you like to remain unseen, yourself,” Keith adds. “You keep walls up and you build ‘em high.”

“I let you in,” Shiro says. 

Keith pauses, and leans his head onto Shiro’s shoulder. “You did.”

He flops back down into bed again and Shiro eyes him with amusement. “Not ready to wake up?”

“No,” Keith grunts, and yanks on Shiro’s pants. He squawks and tumbles into bed beside Keith, barely managing to save the sketch on the bedside table before Keith secures a python grip around his middle. “Stay here...a little longer.”

“As long as you like, my dear,” Shiro says, and Keith cracks an eye open. 

“I had a dream last night,” Keith says. He closes his eyes fully again. “You were with me in the West, on the ranch. You had a tan. You kissed me in the stable until we both got hay in our hair and we went riding, afterwards, to watch the sunset from some mountain peak.”

Shiro closes his eyes, too. He can nearly see it.

“Was it a nice sunset?”

“The sky was ablaze,” Keith whispers. “Like wildfire studded with stars.”

_ Like you,  _ Shiro doesn’t say. 

“The sunsets are always like that,” Keith adds. “I miss them. The fire of them.”

“I should like to see one,” Shiro says, “someday.”

“You would like America,” Keith says after a beat. “It is not perfect, of course, but...there are men, you know, in the West, who live together, sleep together...grow old together.” He bites his lip. “They are not – there is no ceremony, no church, but some call them bachelor marriages. They are not seen as...as wrong, they just...are.” Shiro stares at him and Keith adds hastily, “Not – not to suggest that we would – that you must do such a thing with  _ me, _ I just –"

“Do they court each other, too?” Shiro asks, teasing, though his heart pounds, because the thought of that life with Keith, a life of being allowed to exist, not in the shadows but known and accepted and unafraid, is a thought he clings to now more than ever.

“With beans and coffee, maybe,” Keith snorts, relaxing.

“And long rides at sunset?” Shiro noses at his neck and Keith holds him there. 

“Mm,” Keith hums. “Sleeping under the stars, no one else for miles and miles...no laws, no rules, no pretentious court etiquette.”

“Pretentious?” Shiro repeats, and clicks his tongue. “I will have you know that our courtly rules are tradition!”

Keith shrugs and sits up, gazing down at Shiro and rubbing his thumb over Shiro’s cheek, slow. “Tradition or not,” he murmurs, “I like you like this far better.”

Shiro kisses his fingertip. “It may not be sunset,” he says, “but I wonder if I might persuade you to leave the bed for a ride through the woods.”

Keith pretends to consider it. “I believe I could be persuaded,” he muses, leaning against the headboard as Shiro sits up and shifts over him. 

Shiro grins. “Oh? What could I possibly tempt you with?”

Keith drags a single finger down the middle of Shiro’s chest, stopping just above his navel. His eyelashes flutter and he leans in, breath tickling Shiro’s ear when he says, “Finish the sketch.”

Shiro does so with record time. Afterwards, Keith rewards him with a kiss, and another, and another, for when they can have as many kisses as they like, it is impossible to be content with only one.

*

Keith returns to his guest quarters to dress for the day, and Shiro wanders down to the parlor. Allura is sitting there, drinking tea and eating a scone in dainty little bites, wiping her mouth of crumbs with measured movements. She is not alone in the parlor – Lance sits at the armchair across from her, pretending not to stare at her over the edge of his newspaper.

Shiro takes stock of the situation. “Good morning,” he says, sitting on the sofa beside Allura with his own tea. “I pray you both slept well.”

“Marvelously, thank you,” Allura says, her lips curling in a knowing smile. 

“Quite well, yes, yes.” Lance clears his throat. “Mr. Shirogane, pardon my asking, but have you by chance seen Kei – Mr. Hawkins? I had knocked at his door earlier this morning, but there was no reply.”

There is a long, pregnant pause. Allura sets down her tea, brow raised.

“He slept in late,” Shiro says, only a bit strained. “We are to go for a ride; he ought to be down soon.”

Lance blinks rapidly. “Oh. I. I see? I am glad he is sleeping...he found it difficult to rest these last several nights.”

“As he told me, yes.”

Lance opens his mouth, then closes it. “You two are...on good terms, then?” 

“The best of terms.” Keith stands in the doorway, dressed in his riding clothes. Shiro’s mouth goes dry, tracing the shapely curves of his calves and thighs, hugged by black cloth. Keith’s hair is tied back, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, and the tilt of his mouth promises mischief. 

Allura ducks her head. She is smirking. Shiro will have words with her later. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, struck dumb. “That color suits you.”

“What, black?” Keith’s smile widens. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Shirogane.”

“Since when have you owned such fine riding attire?” Lance demands.

Keith shrugs. “It is for special occasions,” he says.

“And what, pray tell, is the occasion?” Lance asks, disbelief shifting to bewilderment. 

“Fine weather,” Shiro says, standing abruptly and downing the rest of his tea in a few gulps. 

“Oh, a worthy occasion indeed.” Allura is on the verge of snickering, but her voice reveals more joy than mockery. “Perhaps our Shiro will make a proper English gentleman of you, yet, Mr. Hawkins.”

“He is welcome to try,” Keith laughs, and gestures for Shiro to come hither. “The cooks have a small breakfast ready – I thought we might have a picnic.”

“An excellent thought,” Shiro says, dreamy, and follows him out of the parlor as if walking on clouds. It is just as well that they are in a household of friends – Shiro has no interest in hiding his interest in Keith a moment longer, propriety be damned.

*

The weather is indeed fine, though warm enough that the horses tire after not so long a distance, and they are both sweating when they reach the stream Shiro was hoping to find. It is not unlike the stream from their very first ride, slightly wider and deeper, with silvery minnows which dart away from their shadows and bare feet as they wade in together.  

A bird trills from the oak trees, and Keith looks up, smiling faintly. “A chaffinch,” he murmurs. “Look, among the branches, you can see its little nest.”

Shiro looks, and steps closer to him in the shallow water. “You recognize their songs, now?”

Keith nods, breath hitching when Shiro’s wet palm falls over his undershirt, turning the white fabric translucent. “I recognize a great many things,” Keith whispers, “that I did not, before... _ oh.” _

Shiro unbuttons Keith’s shirt with care. The stream rushes around them, and Keith watches him, holding his breath before beginning to unbutton Shiro’s shirt, too. There is no hurry. The horses graze within sight and the birds sing all around them. Keith’s heart beats under Shiro’s palm. “Is this part of the courtship?” he chuckles.

“I wanted to touch you so badly,” Shiro whispers, and Keith’s smile falls off his face, replaced by flustered shock. “It was all I could think, seeing you there in the water...but I also knew I could not have you. And every time – every time I held myself back, and put distance between us, it was because I did not wish to pose a threat to you.”

Keith shakes his head. “You are not,” he says firmly. “Shiro, you are not, nor will you ever be, not in my eyes.”

“All of that self-denial,” Shiro sighs, tracing the shivering lines of Keith’s chest, “in the end, I believe it just made me want you a hundred times more.”

Keith’s eyes fall shut, head falling to the side as Shiro sweeps his damp black hair away from his throat for better access, to kiss the sweat there away at his leisure. “As a child,” Keith whispers, “I thought – there must be something wrong, with me. I did not...I had so little interest in...in this.” He bites his lip when Shiro’s teeth graze his neck. “But when I saw you, I...I did not know what I felt, only that it was...it was new, and good, and I...wanted you, Shiro. I was frightened of that, at first, but…” Keith cups Shiro’s face, and Shiro leans into it. “When you got sick, I was so afraid. It was then that I knew I loved you.”

Shiro swallows. “Even after I had treated you so poorly?”

Keith sighs. “Listen to me. When I carried you back to Longbourn in the rain, I feared each breath might be your last, and when I realized you might be at Death’s door, I knew that if...if you had perished, I would have been quite unable to stay in England. This place would have been too gray to bear without you. Even when we were apart, you have made my days here so much brighter, Shiro. More than you know.”

“As have you,” Shiro whispers, a lump in his throat. “Oh, Keith. Are you certain we are not dreaming?”

“I do not know about yours,” Keith says, “but my dreams have never felt so real and happy as this.”

“To know that I make you happy,” Shiro says, “that is all I have ever wanted.”

“You do,” Keith assures. “Love is – such a different sort of happiness, isn’t it? My heart feels...so very full. It is nearly too much, but – I want more, more of that feeling. You make me feel that way.”

“You make me feel like no other has,” Shiro confesses, and Keith’s eyes darken. “You make me forget to feel guilt.”

Keith leans into him, his open shirt leaving a wet imprint on Shiro’s. “What we feel for each other is not worthy of guilt,” he breathes, and sinks into Shiro’s answering embrace like he belongs there.

The birds sing, the sun shines, and the rush of the stream covers the sounds which fall from their lips in two-part melody. 

*

The ball at Pemberley Hall is in full swing when Shiro sees him across the room. 

Shiro nearly drops his champagne glass. The stranger is, absurdly, as tall, dark, and handsome as one could ever hope for. His black hair is braided back neatly, and gleams in the lamplight like wrought iron, as do the man’s eyes, which spark as they meet Shiro’s, lingering long enough for heat to bloom in Shiro’s belly. The man’s thick brows lower, a small movement coupled by the quirk of his fine mouth. His expression is a playful challenge laden heavy with sweet familiarity. 

The man’s attire is simple in comparison to the lavish ballgowns and evening jackets surrounding them, but to Shiro, he is by far the most stunning creature in all of England.

At his elbow, Lady Allura nudges him. “I believe your company is desired elsewhere,” she murmurs. Her throat drips with pearls and a golden ring glints on her finger, tipped with glinting garnet. Not ten paces from her, a tall man in a powder blue coat chats amiably with a large man in gold and a petite young woman in emerald. The young woman catches Shiro’s gaze, smiles, and winks. He cannot help but smile back.

The stranger is the first to look away, lovely lips moving in an unheard word, and turns sharply on his heel, disappearing into the teeming crowd without a backwards glance.

“I am loathe to leave you, my lady,” Shiro murmurs back, lifting her gloved hand to his lips for a swift kiss. “The party has hardly even begun.”

Allura smiles, and pats his cheek. “This party is for you, Takashi,” she reminds him. “For you, and for him. We will all miss you dearly – myself, most of all. But there will be time to reminisce before you depart for America, and afterwards, whenever you shall return. For now...go. Enjoy yourself – it is what parties are for.”

“You are too good to me,” Shiro says.

“You are not good enough to yourself,” Allura counters, and nods again towards the doors, flung open to the night air. “But with him...you are better.”

“As always, you are right,” Shiro says, and steps away. “At your suggestion...I believe I will go to get some fresh air. Have a fine night, my lady.”

“The finest,” Allura promises, and sends him off with a gentle push. 

Shiro wanders through the crowd as if in a trance, broken only when he steps out into the gardens. The bleak winter is brightening into spring, and the signs of its coming are small but significant – tulips pushing up through the once-frozen earth, skeletal tree limbs budding with new beginnings, green grass replacing the melting snow and ice. Shiro picks his way along the path, casting a brief but fond glimpse at the greenhouse, tucked away alongside the house, the plants within impervious to the changing seasons. 

He pulls his coat closer around him, circling the dark topiaries and grand fountain before stopping short of the garden wall, where a lone figure sits, looking out over the hills and heaths and wide swathe of wild woodland. Shiro approaches quietly, stopping behind him, and clears his throat. 

The man jumps, braid bouncing with the movement, and huffs at Shiro over his shoulder.

Shiro grins and sits down on the wall beside him. “Pardon me,” he says. “I had no intention of startling you.”

“Oh, of course not.” Keith flicks his knee. “I was wondering when you would join me.”

Shiro hums, and takes his hand. Keith does not look away from the landscape, but his mouth twitches upwards, and he squeezes Shiro’s hand as their fingers intertwine. “What are you thinking about?” Shiro asks, leaning so close that there is no cold left between them.

“I am thinking I will miss this place,” Keith says after a moment, “but I am also thinking how good it will be to show you my home.”

“It will be good,” Shiro agrees. “Anywhere with you will be good, my love.”

Keith blushes. “My love,” he repeats. “How easily you say that, now.”

“It is easy to love you,” Shiro says.

Keith kisses him – it is as easy as breathing for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, this has been quite the little adventure. 
> 
> I love historical fiction/romance to bits, so this was quite fun for me to write. It was also cathartic in light of what happened to Shiro in "canon" - an ending which to me and many other LGBTQ+ people feels unearned, lazy, and ultimately a disservice to Shiro's character. To me, part of the reason it felt like a disservice was because there was already a character who had been with Shiro, who had loved Shiro, every step of the way. To see that relationship discarded and heavily bro-zoned at the end of the show? That hurt. More than that, it reminded me terribly of how LGBTQ+ relationships have historically been framed/erased/prevented. That isn't representation. That's repetition of harmful rhetoric and alienation of LGBTQ+ folks who deserve more.
> 
> I don't know about you, but I'm tired of that shit. I want happy endings. So here's a happy ending. Please know they go on to build a life in the Wild West (which was, actually, pretty gay) together, Keith's family loves Shiro like their own son, the warm climate does wonders for Shiro's health, they get a barnyard cat and raise many generations of kittens, and they ride into the sunset every day for the rest of their lives.
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro) for more sheith & shenanigans, and check out my current sheith fic ["the peace-weaver,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467079/chapters/41133821) which is a very different kind of historical fiction au (arranged marriage, early middle ages/beowulf-esque time period, trans keith, dark magic)


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